


The Magpie and the Knight

by jeza_red



Category: Diablo III
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, a slow burn to end the slow burns, and the mage is the coolestXD, at certain point, basically who is int he game will show up, kormac is my stupid son, kormac is not cool with stealing, let the man rest, this will be a piecemeal thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2018-11-28 04:56:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11410659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeza_red/pseuds/jeza_red
Summary: Kormac looked up, - finally standing, but hunched, hands resting on his knees, wheezing and trying to catch his breath, - and met a pair of the darkest eyes he’s ever seen. Almond-shaped, wide open, with sparks of excitement igniting in their depths - just like the sparks of bright electricity that still jumped from clasp to clasp of the stranger’s travelling coat.Kormac forced himself to look away then, not really knowing why it was so hard. But what he saw around stole from him what few words he still had left.Bodies… everywhere. Burned and smoldering, some not even in one piece… gruesome, bloody carnage that he was standing in, his bare feet warm from juices liberally covering the ground.And the man in front of him, who caused it all, stood with his strange clothes unruffled, with not a hair out of place and not a spec of blood on his slender, long-fingered hands.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am attempting to retell the story of Diablo 3 from the POV of the fan favourite Templar (the only Templar, really). I will take soem shortcuts and adjust some things to make them make more sense in a plot-wise sense, since prose runs a bit differently than an rpg.

The man was startlingly... different.

Startlingly, because Kormac wasn’t used to encountering ‘attractive’ men. There were a few of his brothers in the covenant that were universally considered to be handsome, and he himself wasn’t hard on the eyes either, but… But he’s never seen a man like _that_.

The usual fare wasn’t especially varied, to be honest, when he wasn’t prowling through dark corners of the world in search of devil’s spawn to kill, he was dealing with farmers and an occasional townsman. And when not doing that, he was surrounded by his brothers who all fell in line with the Templar’s doctrine of humility and piousness. Hair was shorn short for convenience’s sake, beards the same whenever opportunity arose, clothes were cleaned and kept in good repair to look presentable - they were all representing their order, after all, it wouldn’t do for the first impression to be that of an unkempt boor.

This man was something completely _else_.

At first Kormac thought it’s a woman, to his shame and embarrassment. But inside he felt justified - what, with the long hair and the slim built, and smooth face… He’s rarely seen a man in his travels who would keep his hair purposefully this long and yet have them so well kept. It was a typically feminine trait in his mind, to sacrifice any amount of time above what was necessary to one’s looks. And the clothes the stranger was wearing - light and loose, velvet and silk, and thin, well-crafted leather dyed blue. Not to mention the indecently deep neckline of his tunic.

It was just when the storm with no rain raged around him, bolts of lightening frying dark priests where they stood, licking at his flesh, but curiously not harming it - a hand appeared in his line of vision, offering help. It’s just when he felt the strength behind it pulling him up, felt the rough skin under his palm, - then he knew he was about to make an idiot out of himself.

“Thank you, M’la...” It was a split second decision that saved his face, “...my Lord.”

Then he looked up, - finally standing, but hunched, hands resting on his knees, wheezing and trying to catch his breath - and met a pair of the darkest eyes he’s ever seen. Almond-shaped, wide open, with sparks of excitement igniting in their depths - just like the sparks of bright electricity that still jumped from clasp to clasp of the stranger’s travelling coat.

Kormac forced himself to look away then, not really knowing why it was so hard. But what he saw around stole from him what few words he still had left.  

Bodies… everywhere. Burned and smoldering, some not even in one piece… gruesome, bloody carnage that he was standing in, his bare feet warm from juices liberally covering the ground.

And the man in front of him, who caused it all, stood with his strange clothes unruffled, with not a hair out of place and not a spec of blood on his slender, long-fingered hands.

 

* * *

 

“Maika,” the stranger said when Kormac gave him his name. The Templar hoped that’s reciprocation and not one of the strange words the man tended to whisper to himself from time to time.

The Mage spoke with an accent Kormac recognised as vaguely Caldeish, but these words escaped his humble knowledge. He certainly didn’t look like a desert-dweller, not with a skin this fair.

He was also young. Not at the first sight - when the lightning crackled around him and flames flew from his hands like trained falcons he looked barely _human_. But when they stopped finally for a moment of rest, and for Kormac to don his armor properly, it has changed.

Kormac felt ill at ease when the door of their refuge (miraculously still intact) closed behind his back, casting them in complete darkness. It took him one blind stumble into a wall to start missing the eerie reddish glow of the corridors where he could at least see the enemy coming. Locking himself up in a space barely big enough to spin a sword in, with only one way in or out was against his every instinct - but they needed a break.

He needed a break. Just for a moment. To at least tie his shoes properly and take stock of his belongings. He didn’t hope for much, these deranged priests probably stole what they could from his pockets before chucking the ‘useless’ bits into a chest to rot. That got his blood boiling once more, thinking of these bastards touching his things, _touching him,_ staining his soul with their very fingertips!

He was so angry that he didn’t have a chance to react when a star exploded right in front of his face.

“ _Ack! Gods in heavens…!_ ” He swore, shielding his eyes with one hand, the other groping for a sword.

“Ah, apologies, friend, I forgot to warn you,” a smooth voice stopped his flailing, amusement hanging just at the edges of it. “But you can open your eyes now, I’ve dimmed the light.”

Blinking rapidly to dispel the spots from his vision, Kormac took in the now visible space around him. The room was small - barely more than a cupboard, really, - what furniture was there has rotted and broke under its own weight, littering the floor that was covered in an inch thick layer of grime and dust. But there were no bones and body parts strewn about, so to Kormac it seemed almost luxurious.

He still didn't like the fact that there was only one door, thought.

The Mage didn’t seem equally concerned. Truth to be told, he seemed genuinely _unconcerned_ with their vulnerable position. He was sitting with his back against the wall, legs folded neatly in front of him, eyes closed. There was a sphere of pale yellow light floating above his head and in its soft glow, and the sharp shadows it was casting, he seemed to be barely out of his teens.

“Do not be worried,” the Mage spoke without opening his eyes when the silence in the tiny room stretched. “I’ve warded the door and left some unpleasant traps in the corridor, they will alarm us if the enemy comes closer than fifty paces. You can make sure that everything is in order and then we will move out.”

The Mage was eloquent, it had to be said, making the Templar a bit self-conscious with the way his words carried an air of superiority. He was proud, Kormac suspected. Rooms full of body parts smeared all over the walls were a good reason for it, too.

He still tried to ground what he saw on the other side of this door in the impeccable man sitting in front of him. Was he really able to pull a monster apart with nothing more than a few offhand words or was it just a dream Kormac's feverish mind concocted in the throes of agony?

An inner voice that sounded like the Master of the Covenant schooled him once more for losing precious time on thinking. He could wonder later, now was time for action. He should gird his loins and get ready for meeting his fate.

And Jondar.

Curious, when he stepped into these catacombs all seemed hopeless. When the dark priests dragged him into Hell and started to siphon the life out of him, Kormac thought that this is it, he's done for, he's failed. But now...

The stranger raised from his place on the floor and cracked his fingers like a brawler before the fight. There was a humorous spark in his eyes when he looked at the Templar, as if this whole situation amused him to no end; like he was just killing time in there.

And suddenly, it didn't seem as hopeless as before.

 

* * *

 

Jondar was dead. Simply... gone. His journal burned against Kormac’s breast where he hid it under the chest plate. His body left behind in the catacombs for the demons to devour like so much meat. Kormac's conscience shriveled at the thought, internal need to bury his former comrade with at least some basic honors forced his teeth together until he thought they will break.

But he moved forward, step after step. His former companion (not a friend, not anymore, not ever again) reaped what he had sown, it was no one's fault but his own that he died under the blade of a real, faithful member of the Covenant he had betrayed.

Kormac should not feel guilty. Evil was to be banished, that was the way of things.

Trying to convince himself of that simple truth, the Templar almost walked into his companion's back. Maika was taking the point, as his eyes seemed to have no problem with seeing in the dark and his magic gave him more range. Kormac secured their backs with his trusted spear.

"Why are we stopping?" He asked when the Mage blocked his way. "Trouble ahead?"

The corridor they were traversing was narrow, with a low ceiling. It was a good spot for an ambush, Kormac realised. He didn't care to let go of his spear in hours it would seem, his hands were stiff and caked with dried blood. He was only human and was beginning to tire. If an ambush was what awaited them, he may be not as useful as he'd wish to be.

"No, ahead is clear," Maika said with this slow deliberation that was quickly becoming obvious as his peculiar manner. "I'm more worried about behind."

"Huh?"

The Templar swirled around, weapon at the ready, realising just now how cumbersome it was in such tight space. He strained his eyes looking for any hidden danger, but found none. Which, he was loathe to admit, didn't mean that there wasn't any around.

"I can't see anything. Ghosts?"

He hated the ghosts in these catacombs, unrelenting buggers and their damned shovels!

"It's not ghosts." The Mage said. Then he turned and looked at the warrior, and the strange magical light reflected eerily in his eyes. "Or maybe it is. Sometimes it's hard to say.”

Tired as he was, Kormac could only stare like a calf and wonder if he's being made fun of. “Huh?” He mumbled, confused.

The Mage smiled at that, teeth like white pearls in the dark, and shrugged. He fumbled with a small sack at his waist and when he pulled his hand out of it, a gentle glow rested in it. “Here, friend.” He handed the warrior a small flask, barely more than a shot’s worth of liquid in it. “You look exhausted and you will need your strength to brave the rest of this journey. I apologise it took me this long to notice your suffering.”

Kormac took the flask before he could think about the wisdom of it. The liquid inside was viscous and thick like syrup, bright red in colour. Specs of soft glow floated in it like dust floats in the sunlight. It was warm. It was, undoubtedly, magic.

“Drink it,” Maika instructed. “It will restore your strength and, hopefully, your spirit for a time.”

Instinctively suspicious - magic wasn't the same as the holy power of the Order - the warrior hesitated. But then he scolded himself for acting like a fearful child and downed the flask in one gulp.

The effect was instantaneous. He swallowed the heavy liquid and the next breath was easier. Warmth spread from his belly, from the tips of his toes to the top of his head, invigorating him like ten hours of solid sleep. The fog dispersed from his thoughts and the pain in his limbs dulled.

“Gods!” Kormac exclaimed in wonder. “This is…!”

“It is,” Maika agreed with a smile. “Now pick yourself up and follow me, I will lead you out of this miserable place.”

He was unused to being led and the fact that the one proposing it was barely an adult and a head shorter than the Templar was chaffing. But, after the earlier displays and just experienced wonder, Kormac felt no shame in following this one. The Mage looked like he knows what he's doing and at the moment that was more than he could say about himself.

 

* * *

 

Old Tristram was easily the worst place he's seen so far, Kormac was quite sure. The others from the Order warned him before he set out for his journey, told him to reconsider his mission. But he shrugged them off, no doubt in his mind. He was set on chasing the traitor down and, in the deepest parts of his heart, dreamed that he may be the one to slay the fabled Skeleton King or die trying. As it turned out, neither the former nor the latter was as easy to achieve to as he thought. He hasn't even managed to reach further than the outer layer of the tomb on his own. Dying for a cause was a grim necessity for any Templar, and trying to escape it was shameful...

Yet Kormac couldn't force himself to regret that he's still alive. Maybe his purpose wasn't to die in these dark cellars. Maybe it was to meet this peculiar man and join his mission which seemed more important than his own naive daydreams.

“A fallen star?” He allowed himself a moment to muse on their destination at the next stop the Mage ordered. Powered by the strange portion, Kormac felt that he could go on forever, but he stopped and used the time to tend to his weapon and armor. “Why are you searching for it?”

Maika was traversing the chamber that was their refuge this time - bigger than the last one and cluttered with overturned cupboards full of trinkets. “A fallen star was what had started this whole mess,” he answered absentmindedly. “There's hope that we may find a way of ending it at the source.” His next words were coloured with out of place mirth. “At least I hope that the dead walking amongst the living is not just a thing that happens in Tristram.”

Shamefully, Kormac stifled a snort of amusement. It was far from funny, but... “Knowing the history of this town, it’s not beyond the realm of belief.”

Then he cursed quietly when the strap holding his left pauldron in place snapped in his hand like a piece of ribbon. Without the tools there was no way he could repair it now and there was no time to replace it. The only option left was to discard the whole piece, like everything that could slow them down. A pity. His armor wasn't the best out there, sure, but it was the best Kormac could afford and it served him well for years, parting with it was like parting with one's own flesh.

Not to mention, it left a hole in his defense that the enemies will surely try to exploit. Maybe if he switched the hold on the spear it will be enough to cover his shoulder...

“Stop brooding, my friend, have a look at that.”

The warrior barely had the time to raise his head and avoid being slammed in the face with the flat of a shield. “Wha…” It was big and heavy, and ornate enough to put the rest of his armour to shame. It was perfect. “What is this… Where did you…?”

“Found it gathering dust,” the Mage pointed to the far end of the room where the only upright closet stood open, presenting to the world a rack occupied by an ancient set or plate armour. “I know little about this kind of thing,” Maika shrugged lightly. “But you seem to have acquired a handicap we can’t afford right now.”

Kormac stood up from the wreck of a chair and, like hypnotised, walked to the armour. It was an intricate set, a labour of love of a master craftsman, from the greaves to the gorget. And even though it was covered in dust and cobwebs a swipe of a hand was all it took to confirm the enduring quality of the steel.

“Is it good enough?” The Mage stepped behind Kormac, noiseless in his soft-soled shoes.

The Templar swallowed with difficulty. Judging from the size, it was almost a perfect fit. “It belonged to someone.”

Maika hummed in agreement. “And they’re long dead.”

“Scavenging is not something a honourable warrior does…”

“Oh, is that’s what it was? We’ve passed a few of those on the way, I just thought they were idiots.”

“Now, wait a minute…!”

“We hardly have that much time. You either arm yourself, my friend, or leave this fine piece of work to rot in the dungeons forevermore.”

Kormac found himself outmaneuvered, standing with his mouth open, staring at the Mage who had the gall to smirk at him and turn away, as if to leave! That self-important brat!

Confronted with such crushing loss, the Templar could do nothing else than to move above it. “...the gauntlets and pauldrons are in good enough shape at the moment. And the shield will serve well as it is. The cuirass needs to be fitted, though, and the greaves are too long altogether.” The knight who owned the armour was taller than him, but his shoulder span was similar enough.

“Good, I have a smith back in New Tristram who owns me a favour,” the Mage shrugged gracefully. “I’m sure he will be happy to work on something more interesting than ploughs and scythes for once.”

He, Kormac, the knight Templar of the Holy Order, was committing a deed that was akin to robbing a grave. A sacrilege.

They were still far from the fallen star, thought, who knows what evil they’ll have to banish before they get there? May the gods forgive him, but there was little else he could do.

 

* * *

 

It seemed like days have passed since he’d entered these tombs and at least a full one since he’s met the Mage. They’ve all blended together into an eternity of fighting and running, of blood wetting his face and fire scalding his hands - and yet the star was still out of their reach.

Kormac was sure that sometime soon his body will finally give out. Unfed and unwatered, bone-tired, it will fall where it stood leaving him defenceless and his… companion, without backup.  

And yet he still stood.

Thanks to the little vials the Mage kept handing him, pulled out of the seemingly bottomless pouch, that kept restoring the Templar’s body to life whenever his knees started to buckle. The red potion kept hunger and thirst at bay, healed the burns and closed every wound that marked his skin.   

The Mage himself seldom drank it, even though Kormac started to see his exertion as no smaller than his own. So what if the young man didn’t fight with physical weapons, the powers he called to his aid had to demand some sort of payment. The healers in the Order paid for every healed wound with their own blood - magic this grand had to cost its user even more.  

“Aren’t you tired?” Kormac asked finally, as they crept along one particularly dark passage, ears open and eyes sharp. “Don’t you have to rest for a bit?”

The Mage didn’t turn to him, but the wry smile was heard in his voice when he answered. “Why, friend, thank you for your care, but I’m fine.”

The words were teasing and Kormac couldn’t figure out why. What was so amusing in his question?

“You keep calling me a friend, yet we know little about each other.” He decided it’ll be safer to change the subject.

“That’s not true at all.” Maika shook his head and the few thin braids in his hair jingled with glass beads. “Fighting side by side one can learn a great deal about their companion.”

“Oh? Such as?”

“You’re a brave man, Kormac, one has to be if they’re stepping into a lair of demons out of their own volition. Maybe a bit too brave, even, but I can respect that. You’re disciplined, it’s clear in the quality of your fighting skills. I can trust you to guard my back, so it would seem that you’re trustworthy in general. There were many moments when you could’ve stepped back to save yourself, instead you stayed and fought by my side. Which may also mean that you don’t trust easily yourself, because you don't believe that I can get through without your help.” A brief pause that Maika used for casting a spark of blue light down the adjoining corridor. Kormac has seen him do it twice already and surmised that the sparks were some sort of a detection spell. “You trust my magic, I think, but not _me_. You speak of your order of brothers and it obviously brings you pride… but you’re not used to fighting with a partner, are you?”

Speechless, Kormac could only grunt in response. Was he that easy to read, really? That open? Or was the man a mind reader too?

Stunned, his mind decided to tackle the easiest part of the conversation. “You’re right, I rarely work with anyone,” he muttered, feeling hot blush of embarrassment spreading over his face and the back of his neck. He used to partner more often when he was younger, learning from the old warriors, earning his name within the ranks. Later,  there was only one man he was happy to accompany in fight, but… But that wouldn't happen ever again.

The answering hum could be thoughtful, or could be amused, he could not tell. And anyway, he had no time to wonder because just as the sound reached his ears the adjoining corridor exploded with flames and roars of the beasts. He barely had a time to raise his spear when a mass of flesh and scales fell on it, almost ripping the weapon out of his hands.

Frantic, Kormac raised the shield and set his knees to receive the weight of a dying monster - and somewhere in the back of his mind he had a moment to appreciate the sturdiness of the piece and thank the Mage for pushing it into his hands. Leather grip croaked in his hand, but the steel was true, even if the force necessary to push the beast off almost broke the Templar’s shoulder.

“An ambush!” He gasped, when the air returned to his lungs. “Watch out!”

“I know!” The Mage growled back and Kormac thought that he’s heard a shiver of uncertainty in his voice. The stream of words following could be a spell or a complicated foreign curse, it was hissed out so fast that it resembled a whistle of wind more than human voice. “Cover your ears!”

The barked out order had to have some magic left in it, because it went through the Templar like a lightening. His common sense barely stopped him from dropping the shield, but the spear clattered to the floor and the freed hand snapped on its own and pressed itself to his right ear. Not a moment too soon.

The crack that shook the walls around them was deafening. A sound like a falling mountain, it vibrated up Kormac’s spine and shook his teeth. With his left hand busy he could only push his right ear into his shoulder, weak defense as it was; he could swear that something popped inside of it when a wave of pressure crashed into him, strong enough to bend his knees.

 _Gods_.

He waited for the sound to end and it took him too long to realise that it did, that what he was hearing was only the ringing in his own head. He vaguely felt something pressing at his side, but his senses were too blurry and muddled to rely on. He shook his head to clear it, desperate to be back in fighting shape in case a lucky monster survived whatever _madness_ the Mage had just unleashed… gods, but his ear had to be bleeding, because he could hear nothing above the ringing and the hum and the…

The hum was new. It rose and fell steadily, in rhythm of his own heartbeat.

Only when his sight cleared somewhat, Kormac saw that the corridor they stood in was empty. Completely. Not a drop of blood and not a scale remained from their attackers. There was only darkness punctured by the unsettling reddish glow of the ghostly lanterns. And silence.

The Mage was leaning on Kormac’s side, under his shield arm, and gasped like a landed fish. Handsome face was pale and sweaty, and for a moment Kormac felt panic rise to his throat. Maika - the creature that leaned on him for support - did something... something that removed even the smallest traces of their enemies from existence. Not only them, the surface of his shield lost all meticulously inlaid decorations, it was sanded smooth and the spear… half of the shaft left of it was still lying at their feet. There was no spearhead, not even a splinter remained.

Was the Mage even human?

“Heh...” Maika gasped, trying to stand on unsteady legs and, failing that, leaned back against the Templar. “Heh, what do… you know... it worked.”

Kormac didn’t answer - couldn’t answer at the moment. If he dared to, he would probably end up screaming like a scared child. Instead, he finally released the strap of the shield and put his shoulder around the man, trying to lower him to the ground as carefully as he could. He hoped that the shaking of his own knees went unnoticed.

“No, no,” the Mage shook his head and, damn him, still had enough strength to be stubborn. “We have to go… more will come… I cleared the way… for a moment…”

“You can’t stand.” Korean answered simply. “And I can’t carry you.” And he didn’t even have a weapon anymore to protect them! “Do you have another elixir? It may help you…”

Another head shake almost sent the man falling backwards. “No, elixirs won’t… it’s not my body that’s… wait.”

With shaking hands, Maika reached to the low collar of his shirt and slid his fingers underneath to pull out a pendant. It was a blue stone set in silver. And it was magic, obviously, because no rock Kormac has ever seen emitted its own glow. Like the elixirs, it was mysterious and unsettling.

Especially when it was showed into the Templar’s hands.

“Can you… break it… for me?”

“What…?” Judging by the size and the weight of it, the sapphire was worth more than everything Kormac has ever owned. Years of peaceful life could be bought for it in many parts of the world. “But… ah, alright!”

All logic left this place a long time ago it would seem, what was one more strangeness amongst all the others? Kormac raised his arm and, with all his remaining strength, slammed the pendant into the stone floor. It cracked like fragile glass on the impact, falling apart into shards so small they could pretend to be sand.

Kormac watched, fascinated, as blue smoke rose from the destroyed jewel, pale and thin, and shimmering like spring water. He flinched when the Mage showed his hand through it, clenched his fingers, grasping at thin air… no, not air.

Maika grasped the smoke like a wad of sweet cotton and, like a child at a faire, immediately put it into his mouth. And swallowed.

The Templar stared, mesmerised, as colour returned to the Mage’s face. His stomach rolled, because what he witnessed was hardly natural… was Maika... eating magic? Was it just his imagination, or did the smoke try to get away from the grip for a moment there?

“Ah, that’s much better.” The Mage sighed in relief. A red flask flickered in his hand. One gulp of an elixir and he was up and standing, not a shred of recent exhaustion left. “Well then, let’s go, friend. We have to find you a new weapon.”

He put his nose up in the air, like a hound, before turning into the hall to their left. “This way looks promising.”

Speechless, Kormac could only follow.

 

* * *

 

The man, black and white as he was, had to be related to magpies. There was no other explanation for the impeccable sense that led him straight to the treasures buried in the demon’s lair.

“This will be very useful,” he hummed in thought, eyes locked on a ruby pendant raised to the light.

Kormac listened with only one ear (the other was still occasionally popping at odd intervals) busy in the other end of the spacious room, digging through a long chest packed with blades. Though a spear would be more up his alley the few that he’s found on the racks were unusable due to rot eating at the wooden shafts. He wasn’t bad with a sword exactly, and with the shield it seemed more practical… he just. Eh.

Was he really being picky while _robbing what was virtually a grave_?

“Take all you need,” the Mage said, settling down on a lid of the nearby chest. “We may not find another stash like this anytime soon.”

“I’m surprised we did in the first place,” Kormac answered truthfully. “I would think that any wealth would be stolen…”

“And what would demons do with jewels?” Maika raised one shapely eyebrow. “They have no sense to appreciate fine craft, nothing apart from bloodlust rules their minds. But I’m also surprised,” he shrugged, “that King Leoric gathered quite a treasure.”

Kormac tried not to flinch at the name of the Mad King being spoken with such little care. “Stole it off his people, most probably,” he seethed. Then he paused,  because hypocrisy was one of the Cardinal Sins in his Order. “And now _we’re_ stealing it from him.”

“If it helps your consciousness, think of it as liberating.” A smile was sent his way, all white teeth and wry amusement. Maika picked a golden chain from the pile on his lap and showed it to the Templar. “See this? It would rot in this place, useless and forgotten. To make such a magnificent thing and then let it go unused, that’s simply unseemly.”

The chain was, indeed, very nice, woven expertly out of hair-thin strands of gold and decorated with tiny purple gems. Kormac was about to admit that it was a fine craft… until it was put around his neck.

“What are you doing?” He growled when long fingers brushed his nape, and he reached to remove it. He was a warrior, not a damsel!

“No.” His hands were pushed away and the Mage narrowed his eyes. “This is for protection, don’t take it off.”

“...protection?” Oh. “Is it magic?”

A sardonic smile. “Yes, it’s _magic_. It should make your skin tougher. It will be harder to harm and more resilient to infections and other unpleasantness. I can fiddle with it later to raise its potential, but for now it should suffice.”

He’s never heard of magic able to do that - to protect someone like that. Of course he’s heard of various amulets, he’s had a few in his hands in the past, but their power was never more than a vague idea of a good luck. And this was… it had to be worth much. And the Mage just put it on his neck is if the chain was made of straw!

“Take that sword, by the way,” Maika calmly cut into his astonishment. He pointed at a greatsword on one of the racks that Kormac has already inspected and, reluctantly, discarded. “It’s the best this place has to offer.”

“I thought you said you’re not knowledgeable about weapons.”

“I’m a keen observer, though. I’ve seen what blades you’ve been considering. I also know my runes. The sword you’re holding is cursed to break if a stranger ever uses it.”

_“Godsdamnit!”_

“No need to throw it around.”

 

* * *

 

Before they moved out of the treasury the Mage ‘ate’ another three jewels.

“I've once met a man in my travels who would be very happy with these.” His strength was restored, it seemed, there was a spring in his step now and a sparkle returned to his eyes. “He claimed that he loves jewels enough to eat them. I’m beginning to see the appeal.”

Kormac was busy fighting his rolling stomach. He wasn’t mistaken before, the blue mist did try to escape its fate - like a living being, it tried to resist the capture.

“Are you alright, my friend?”

The concern was tinged with amusement, but genuine enough for the Templar to answer honestly. “Do you have to do it?” He asked. “Are the elixirs not enough?”

These black eyes turned serious for once . “They’re lies, you know, of a sort.” Maika said quietly. “They will make your body think that it's stronger than it is, that it’s rested, that it’s not hungry. For a time. But in the end a body is just a body, and it will succumb to exhaustion, all the worse for how delayed it was. We have to use them wisely.”

Shaken, Kormac checked his body internally, but everything seemed to work perfectly - the heart beat steadily, his muscles were strong. If he's been lied to,  the lie was so perfect that even his trained senses could not detect it. But there had to be a price to be paid, he knew, for the grace of strength beyond human ability. Gods be merciful, he will pay it when they're back in a safe place.

“You see, my exhaustion is of a different kind than yours.” The Mage revealed. “I didn’t foresee that the way down will take me this long and that I will have a need to replenish my magic so often. Back in Tristram, I can make elixirs that do exactly that, but in here…” He scrunched his nose in disgust. “I’m forced to do it in the barbaric way.”

Alright, that made sense.  The magic this foreigner used was on a completely different level than anything Kormac has ever seen. Compared to the prayer based power of the Order, this was closer to insanity.

“How do you do it?” Kormac couldn’t stop himself from asking. “I've seen magic in my life, but never this powerful.” He tried neither to sound too flattering, nor too afraid, but he was aware that if this man turned on him for whatever reason, the outcome was already forgone and not in his favor. A bit of praise was due, since he was alive only because of him. “You will be a force to be reckoned with if you decide to fight the Evil clawing at the world. My Order would be glad to have you.”

Once again he was laughed at. It happened so often lately that he started to get used to it, though it still embarrassed him. Mostly because the Mage didn't seen scornful - that Kormac knew how to deal with. No, he seemed playful. And that was something that the warrior didn't have much experience with.

Maika had to realise that, seeing his put out expression, because his own softened.

“I'm not taking your Order lightly, my friend.” He assured. “It’s just that I already have a calling and a fate laid out in front of me that I dare not deny. I’m also ill suited for orders of any kind,” he shrugged. “Alike you, I don’t work well with others.”

That caught Kormac’s attention enough that he stopped in his tracks to look at the Mage fully. “Fate?” He asked. “What kind of fate can be so strict?”

 _Strict enough to make someone like you follow it_ \- he wanted to add, but smartly didn’t. So far the man seemed untamed in a way completely exotic to the Templar, powerful and  smart enough to easily get his way. “Unless you’d rather not tell…?”

“Eh, I can tell you, why not? It’s not like we have anyone else to talk to.” Maika smiled. “My fate is to fight a great Evil that descends upon this world.” He said it with such surety, that any retort Kormac wanted to express died on his lips.

How old was this man, really? How could he be so…

“Sounds boastful, doesn’t it?” The Mage chuckled, seeing his struck expression. “Of course it does, especially to you, a Templar who had sworn his life to fighting Evil at every corner.” A shrug. “I could barely believe it myself when I read the scroll… ah,” he seemed to check himself. “I probably shouldn’t tell you about it, but what the hells, you’re a trustworthy man.”

“You can't know that.” Kormac protested out of habit. The Mage was too easily assuming things about him!

But his protest was waved away with an airy gesture. “Of course I can,” Maika said with conviction. “I’ve told you, I know my fate.”

It took a few moments to sink in, but when the real sense of the words got to Kormac, he stopped dead in his tracks, once more staring after the Mage like a stunned calf. What Maika just told him… did it mean…?

“You knew you’ll meet me?” He managed to choke out.

“No, of course not.” Maika’s smile turned wistful. “But the prophecy said that my companions will be honourable and pure of heart. I haven’t yet found a reason to doubt it.”

...pure of heart?

 

* * *

 

The sword was magic too. Go figure. Had to be, there was no way that Kormac’s rusty skills with a blade that wasn’t mounted on a pole could be this good all of a sudden. Maybe it was the elixirs that made every swing easier and faster? Made his body ignore the strain he was putting on it?

The shield, however, was a godsend. It protected him from the splashes of blood and gore as surely as the magic barriers that Maika kept stretching around himself whenever the danger of dirtying his clothes came about.

Kormac thought him shallow for a moment, womanly in the insistent care for his appearance. But only for a moment, before he realised how very - _slight_ he was. Shorter than the Templar, narrow in the shoulders and hips, with slim hands and thin ankles. There was no way he could wear plate Armour efficiently - and there was nothing else around that would serve him as proper clothing if his own got destroyed. There _was_ an issue of the lack of foresight that had him choose silk over tough leather for a trip into the belly of the beast, of course, the man _was_ vain. But Kormac - with drying blood matting his hair and squashing in the joints of his armour - was more than willing to forgive him that.

 

* * *

 

The skeleton King - or rather the skeleton of the King - was a monster Kormac expected him to be. A powerful giant wielding a mace that in on itself was almost bigger than the Templar!

That Leoric turned into a beast filled with rage after death was no surprise, for there was no other fate awaiting anyone who was as foul during their life as the fallen King.

It was enough to remember the scraps of the journals they've found on the way to ignite a fire of rage inside the Templar’s chest, to banish any thoughts of fear that might have been clouding his resolve. He had no idea how Maika planned to approach this fight, but he was not about to let him fight it alone.  

That's why he almost smacked the Mage when Maika said, “Stay behind my back, Kormac!”

He was no damsel to be protected!

But some shred of reason left in him after the rage has had its fill reminded him of the terrifying powers his companion wielded and how much of a bad idea it would be to get himself trapped between them and an angry monster. Maika was right,  once more,  it was better to stay back.  

Not that this position gave him a lot of time to stand around and stare. Leoric’s minions rose from under their feet like smoke. Ghostly apparitions of former soldiers turned into mindless beasts were out for blood and Kormac had his hands full trying to dispatch them back into oblivion. Fending off more than two opponents at a time wasn’t an easy task even for a seasoned fighter. Not to mention the distraction of having to watch out for a companion whose attacks were flying fast and high across the throne chamber.

The Mage didn’t have it any easier – Leoric was horrifyingly fast for a creature so big and heavy. Every so often Kormac’s teeth shuddered when that awful mace missed its target and crashed into the floor, cracking the stone underneath like shortbread. Whenever the situation allowed, he tried to look for his companion – and whenever he’s found him, it took a concentrated effort to pull his attention away.

If Leoric fought like an enraged boar, then Maika was a cornered cat. Only now his disdain for armour turned from vanity into a sound tactical decision: because a man would not be able to move this fast with even one plate weighing him down.

Kormac has seen fighting Mages a couple of times in the past. All of them stood tall and unmoving at the edges of the battlefields, with only their hands moving in intricate patterns, casting curses and protection in complete calm. He wasn’t prepared to see one of the magical ilk to actually step up to the enemy and match them blow for blow.

Maika was a blur. From place to place he dashed, swift like wind and agile like a feline. He evaded the undead soldiers with the skill of a dancer, somehow always managing to sidestep Leoric’s mace by an inch and a half. And he never stopped casting – his lips moved in that strange language, his hands never stilled. Blue fire and white ice surrounded him almost constantly, exploding into his foe’s face whenever he came too close.

The floor shook from Leoric’s mace, true, but every time Maika summoned lightning the ceiling threatened to cave in.

Kormac, even in the throes of battle rage, wished for a chance to see this spectacle from the outside. He could feel heat brushing his back from time to time and smell the electricity filling the air. He didn’t know how the Mage has managed to evade him with his wide-sweeping attacks so far, but he was grateful nonetheless. His sword was as deadly as ever, but a death form a blade was hardly comparable to being frozen solid and shattered like glass…

“Down!”

Only a life-long habit of listening to orders saved Kormac’s life when a wave of fire rolled over his head, enveloping three foes who thought to backstab him. Apparently, even dead materia could still feel pain, judging by their screams.

Kormac swirled around with a growl on his lips. “Pay attention to your foe!” He shouted, enraged. His shoulders shook with strain, but he wasn’t yet done! He didn’t need babysitting! “I’ll manage!”

“You’re welcome!” Maika shouted back… and barely managed to avoid a blade spinning towards his face.

He spun on one foot and… vanished into thin air.

Kormac blinked, struck dumb.

And the time slowed in between.

…he felt like he’d spent ages in the darkness before his eyelids lifted to see a world frozen in place. The enemies stood unmoving all around him with their weapons raised, their screams stretched into one never-ending vailing note. Fear blossomed in his chest, but it was slow to bloom, as was the comprehension. What in the name of…

“ _Friend… this battle has to end now…”_ He tried to turn to the voice, but he knew he’ll never make it. _“…when the time starts flowing… close your eyes… and whatever you hear, don’t look...”_

He wanted to question, to demand explanation, to agree – but couldn’t. The meaning of the words has barely reached him and in the same moment the time-stopping spell ended. World exploded into a cacophony of noise and violence.

Maika needed not warn him, the sudden rush of a timeline reasserting itself was enough to send the Templar to his knees with his eyes squeezed shut. With a body that felt as if someone grabbed it by the guts and pulled it inside out there was a slim chance that Kormac could do anything, but gasp.

Good thing that he wasn’t required to fight, because whatever it was that Maika did in that corridor back then, he did it again.

Just much bigger.

And more terrifying.

Because this time there was no explosion of nerve-shredding noise, just _silence_ \- and it was absolute.

Kormac couldn’t hear his plates, his breath, his own heartbeat, - as if the magic leeched these sounds out of the air and devoured them without a trace. Just like it left no trace of a skeleton army that stood in its way a few heartbeats ago.

But he didn’t care for the remains of his foes. He was a Templar, a battle-hardened warrior; he was trained to keep his head. Once he’s seen this spell in action and once he’s been scared by it, and that was already one too many times. Training oneself out of fear was something that the Order taught him early.

Instead, more pressing matters crowded to the forefront of his mind.

“Maika!”

He wasn’t far. Actually, Kormac hasn’t yet managed to straighten his knees properly when a firm weight pressed against his back – a warm, shaking weight that gasped for breath and then promptly wasted it on a chuckle.

“Heh…it worked again.” Maika sounded strained and looked no better.

Kormac hoisted himself up with the use of his shield – his knees felt like they’re made of pastry, but that could be ignored for the time being – and twisted to the side, catching the Mage around the waist when the young man stumbled.

“This feels familiar,” Kormac joked weakly, pulling his companion towards the only part of the chamber that wasn’t a crumbling ruin – the throne. “You look like you’re about to keel over.”

“Strange… I feel... great.”

“I'm sure you do.”

The battle rage still filled his veins and his heart was still pumping way too quickly – knowledge that the fight is over was slowly forming in his brain, but Kormac was glad to let it wait a bit longer. It meant that he has a few more minutes of adrenaline-born energy to spare. With Maika barely holding on to consciousness it was on him to protect them both from any stray demons that decided to attack now that their king was dead. Or…?

“You killed him,” he more stated than asked, just to make sure. “The King. He’s dead, right?”

“Is he?” Maika lowered himself carefully on the throne; his fingers were clenched white on the armrests, but the smirk was still present on his face. Kormac had a suspicion that even death wouldn’t be enough to remove it. “He was dead long before we came here… But now at least he rests in… well, wherever your dead go to pay for their misdeeds, I guess…”

“Hell,” Kormac deadpanned. “Good. That’s a good place for him. Now stop wasting energy on words.”

The chamber was breaking around them, but Leoric’s penchant for collecting treasure was something Kormac has learned to count on during this adventure. He quickly scoured the piles of weapons and armour strewn haphazardly across the place and tried his hardest to stop the internal pain of seeing such splendid work being treated like junk. His eyes only misted for a moment. If it was up to him, he would save all of it from destruction, but… there were more pressing matters to attend to.

“To your… left…” Maika wheezed from the throne. “Green… glow...”

Kormac followed the instructions and, indeed, the pile on his left side was surrounded with a faint greenish glow. He kicked it apart, careful not to damage too many priceless pieces, searching for the source of the light. Soon enough his eyes rested on a jewelled bracelet. Gold band more than an inch wide, beset with green ambers winked at him when he lifted it up.

This time he didn’t need to be told what to do. Jewels cracked against the stone armrest of the throne and the mist rose from them to be devoured.  

But Maika didn’t look any better, even if his breathing evened out somewhat.

“Do you need more?” Kormac asked, nervous. He wanted to feel the euphoria of a won battle, the joy that defeating a great Evil usually brought him, but the only thing filling his heart was unease. “Maybe if you drink one of the elixirs…”

Dark eyes looked at him from a paper-white face and he had to stop himself from stepping back, from running... There was hunger in that piercing gaze, a need so powerful that it caused his breath to hitch.

He kept forgetting that his companion’s humanity was still in question.

“I need much more…” The Mage gathered his wits with obvious strain. He closed his eyes and swallowed thickly; the tip of the tongue chased the taste of magic across his lower lip in an uncomfortably predatory gesture. “But not this…” He wanted to say something more, but stopped himself, swallowing again, and ended with: “Jewels will do.”

He struggled to his feet and only Kormac’s quick reflexes stopped him from pitching forward and smashing his nose on the floor.

“Would you stay still!” The warrior snapped, trying to hide how spooked he was. He allowed exasperation to push at the nervous feeling that having such dangerous being so close awoke; it was more convenient for all involved. “I’ll get you the stones.”

“There’s more here than the stones, my friend…” Maika breathed into his collar. He was trembling from strain, Kormac could feel it under his fingers, and yet the Mage pushed away and managed to stand on his own. “We need to search this place for a trapdoor.”

The Templar frowned. “A trapdoor?”

“Yes, a hidden way to where we need to go.”

Kormac felt like a dumb child, but he could’ve sworn that he’s heard… “A trapdoor.”

And Maika smiled at him like he was one. “Yes, a trapdoor.” But then that smile paled into a grimace. “We have to hurry… I have a feeling that we’re already running late…”

“Late for what?”

“I have no idea, but the feeling is annoying and I’d like it to cease. Come, friend, we have to… oh, that will be useful. _”_

The Templar rolled his eyes. Trust a magpie to forget about the world in the presence of a treasure.

 

* * *

 

 

The hidden passage wasn’t hard to find – it was tucked into a darkened corner of the chamber, completely inconspicuous and entirely obvious because of that.

However, going down a seemingly infinite number of rough stone-hewn stairs was a completely different pair of shoes. Especially, that the passage radiated heat that already made Kormac’s skin break into sweat and hair curl against the back of his neck. It was a risky trek ahead of them: heat, lack of air and uncomfortably close quarters making it even more harrowing in their worn state.

“Are you well enough?”

Kormac started to feel like a mother hen and knew that after the third time his questioning had to become annoying, but he couldn’t help it. The Mage devoured a dozen or so of jewels and yet his face was still pale and his steps careful. Both their lives depended on him being ‘well enough’ to carry the magical shield that would protect them from the fallen star’s radiation!

Thankfully, Maika didn’t seem to hold it against him. “I’m alright, I’ll manage.”

“Neither of us is alright. If an enemy waits in an ambush on the other side, I may not be able to protect us.” Kormac said it fully prepared to be scoffed at, and indeed, the Mage scoffed at him like an angry cat. He braved it.

“Trust me, I wouldn’t go if I wasn’t sure of my safety,” Maika answered calmly. He raised his arms and the numerous bracelets circling both forearms chimed like bells. “These will get me through the worst of it. Your shield should hold off any attack long enough for me to strike back.”

Indeed, the new shield was sturdy and, as his companion revealed, covered in runes and charms. Kormac wasn’t happy with the thought of leaving the old one – it was still serviceable, mostly, - it wasn’t what the Order had taught him. Equipment should be respected and cared for, not discarded like old clothes whenever something new and shinier appeared on the horizon.

But the same philosophy he detested seemed to be the exact philosophy of his new companion: the end justified the means when it came to gaining power.

And seeing how much power the man already had at his disposal…

“Come, Templar, you have that look in your eyes again,” Maika said, standing in front of the passage, hands already weaving through the air, leaving cold blue sparks behind. “The dull stare of a man who thinks too much. We have no time for that, my fate awaits!”

Kormac considered taking offense for a second or two and decided against it. He shook his head and joined the Mage.

“Hurry up, then,” he muttered as the magical glow rose to envelop them. “We wouldn’t want to leave it hanging.”

The world folded and twisted before their eyes and yet the madman could still laugh at him.

 

* * *

 

 

Sometime during their long descent the pervasive heat of the air cooled and then turned to biting cold. The Mage’s cooling spell fizzled out and Kormac was forced to support the man on his shoulder all the way to the bottom of the staircase where they’ve finally saw the fallen star.  

“It would seem that your fate has a sense of humour,” Kormac said in a deadpan voice, breath still quick.  

Maika shot him a half-hearted glare, but the Templar only shrugged in answer. They were both equally bewildered, arguing about it wouldn’t help.

Each contemplated their own share of said fate as they started at the man curled up on a pile of rubble, surrounded by the blue glow of the fallen star.

“So this is not the end yet.” Kormac heard his companion whisper and could’ve sworn that the tiredness in his voice wasn’t caused entirely by physical exhaustion. Normally, he would ask questions, but his arms felt as if they wanted to detach at the joints and his stomach was still queasy from the recent battle and travel into the centre of the Earth.

The stranger groaned and shifted on the ground. He was big and dark skinned, with thick members and well-crafted muscles. He was also completely naked.

“Are you going to talk to him?” Kormac asked.

“Me? He seems to belong to your ilk…”

“Well, he’s _your_ fate.” He frowned. “And how does he belong with my ilk? What is ‘my ilk’ exactly?”

The Mage shrugged and said “Warriors,” but sounded like he wanted to say ‘dullards’.

“How did you… eh, no matter.” Never in his life has Kormac forfeited this many battles and it should be annoying, but the exhaustion was pulling him down and there were, yet again, more important things to take care of.

He unclasped his cloak from the back of his belt and unrolled it. The fabric was stiff and stained with blood in a few places, but it was better than nothing – and more than enough to protect one’s dignity.

“What are you doing?” Maika was looking at him inquisitively and it was uncomfortable how his look reminded Kormac of a bird or a cat; something that from time to time had trouble comprehending basic human nature.

“We can’t just leave him like that,” he answered. “If I feel cold in this dark hole, he has to be freezing.”

And naked. Very naked.

“You don’t know it’s safe to get close to him.”

The stranger groaned again.

“I assume you do, with all of your foreknowledge. I trust you’d tell me if he intended to harm me.”

“For all you know it may be a trap.”

“He’s clothless and weaponless, what can he do?”

And here Maika sent him a sideways look that was unlike any before. Kormac blinked in confusion and the look disappeared. This time he intended to ask - but just as he opened his mouth, the stranger woke up for good and realised that he’s not alone.  

Maika, against his previous reluctance, stepped forward and demanded to know the truth. His exhaustion seemingly disappeared into the wind and he once more carried himself with a proud swagger of an unbeatable hero.

Looking at him like that, Kormac suddenly felt old.

 

* * *

 

Back in Tristram, they collapsed.

The trip through the portal was one of the most unpleasant thing he’s experienced in his life. He never used one before, - wasn’t aware that a non-Mage can use one – but if his companion said that it will be alright, he strived to believe that it will. It was not really alright. It was terrible!

Gods, give him a horse, a donkey or even a camel, but he will never step one foot outside of his normal reality again!

The moment they’ve set their feet on the muddy cobblestones in front of the inn, their collective knees buckled.

Well, Kormac thought faintly, at least he knew how long the elixirs’ lies last.

His body simply refused to move, muscles locked in place and vision dimmed. He was so exhausted that even the queasiness the portal’s magic inadvertently caused was too decent to bother him for long. And he wasn’t even the one who was hit the hardest.

The stranger they’ve rescued from the catacombs was half-conscious, mumbling nonsense, barely keeping himself upright with the help of the Templar’s shoulder.

But it was Maika that slumped against Kormac’s chest with a pained groan, almost causing his heart to stop. It might have been his imagination, but Kormac thought he saw blood on Mage’s lips and around his nose. The bracelets around his forearms were hot to the touch and the chain on Kormac’s neck burned even through his shirt.

“Mai…!” he growled out, trying to keep the man from landing in the mud. “Hey…”

“...alright…” the Mage muttered. His head fell forward and long hair obscured his face completely. “...rest, now.”

Damnit! That last spell had to wring the last of strength from him!

“Hey, you there, help me out!”

Voices. Unknown hands pulled at him and dragged him to his feet. Took over his burdens, no matter how hard he tried to hold on to them.

“Easy, warrior, we’ll take care of you all.”

A beautiful woman ordered the men around her and they obeyed like trained beasts. Between one blink and the next Kormac has been pushed on a bed and stripped down to his underclothes by some elderly matron.

He was so thirsty he could barely form words. When she put a pot of water to his lips, he drank until his chest seized from the lack of air.

Then, he was pushed, his head touched the pillow and he remembered no more.

 

* * *

 

They’ve told him he slept for two days, waking up only to drink some more and fall asleep again. He didn't remember these moments of lucidity,  neither did his body,  because it was still thirsty.  Not to mention, famished. When he woke up for the final time there was a plate already waiting at his bedside, stacked high with potatoes drenched in some sort of meaty goulash and Cormac all but inhaled the food.

“Glad to see you finally awake, friend.” The Mage’s voice rung with his customary amusement and Kormac didn’t even bother to look up from his plate. There was still some gravy on the bottom of the dish that he sponged up with a piece of hard, doughy bread.

The bed dipped near his knees and a dainty hand appeared in his sight to steal one of the last bits of meat - Kormac growled at the Mage, pulling the plate away from his thieving attempts.

“You’re a magpie,” he threw at the man. Gods, his voice sounded gravelly to his own ears.

“Well, now I am hurt,” Maika didn't even pretend to look it.

Kormac rolled his eyes and only then realized how dry they are. “I’m sure you are.”

After the plate was cleaned, the Templar set it on the ground and rubbed his face, a tired sigh escaping him. Once the hunger and thirst were satiated his body felt prudent to draw his attention to the multitude of aches and hurts that littered his flesh from head to toes. His shield arm felt numb - he was experienced enough to consider it a mercy, because there was bound to be an impressive bruise all the way down his shoulder. Having a little while to adjust to it before the pain strikes in its entirety was a blessing. Kormac could focus in peace on the pain in his ribs and the way the muscles in his thighs and shins protested any sort of movement, stiff from prolonged disuse. Oh joy.

Not to mention the dull pounding in the back of his head and the ear that still didn’t seem to stop popping on him. He started to fear that it may be some sort of permanent damage.

His flesh was nothing, but a meager tool in the service of the Good, of course; he bore dozens of scars proving his dedication - like every good tool should. But he hoped for at least a few more years of dutiful service before his senses started to fail him.

He performed his internal inventory in silence, patiently working out the stages of damage he took - sorting them by severity, deciding which ones to take care of first and which were safe to be left alone. And not for even a moment was he unaware of the presence of a Mage who sat on his bed in silence, patiently waiting for his attention. And waiting.

And waiting.

Apparently, the concept of privacy wasn’t widely spread in whatever corner of the earth Maika hailed from.

“Do you want for something?” Kormac bit the bone, resigned to his fate.

“Yes,” Maika was quick to answer. “Your shirt off, if you please.”

...yes, he had to be going deaf or something, because he could have sworn he’s heard…

Faced with an incomprehensive stare, the Mage sighed as if the whole world was against him and lifted his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Or not, if you’d prefer it this way,” he spoke. “I think that I can run a simple research spell to identify your hurts even like that.”

Tell-tale sparks whispered around the man’s fingers, before Kormac came back to life and threw himself to grab the slender hands before the spell could be finished. Of course, his unused joints protested, he overbalanced and almost sent them both crashing to the floor, earning himself a wary glare from the Mage along with an impressive scowl.

“What is it, now!”

“No magic!” Kormac managed to gasp out, before he gathered enough willpower to straighten himself back up and ignore the pain his abused body attacked him with.

The glare was shaping up to be quite something. “And why is that?” Maika’s voice was almost as frosty.

Now, Kormac wasn’t a caring man by nature - the sole reason his life looked as it did was the proof of that. The Covenant, however, promoted consideration for fellow human beings, even if the ways of showing it that were considered appropriate generally revolved around fighting the Evil and keeping the weaker ones safe.

That is to say, Kormac quite often wasn’t the best at showing concern without a sword in his hand. Especially, that out of the two of them in the room, Maika wasn’t the weaker one and Kormac’s worry was most probably unwarranted - and came across as disrespectful, anyways, as it usually did.

Still, he tried to convey his intentions.

“You fainted.”

Not that he was any good at it.

At least the glare turned into a slightly befuddled concern. “Yes… so did you,” the Mage refuted.

Kormac grunted. “ _You_ almost burned yourself out to get us here,” he continued, stubborn.

And he was about to say more if he wasn’t interrupted by the sound of familiar laughter. His shoulders dropped in resignation, knowing that he’d just made an ass of himself once more. But at least the Mage wasn’t angry.

“You’re worried about me,” Maika said and the pale shade of wonder in his voice brought on even more embarrassment to the Templar.

“Well, yes, maybe I shouldn’t be.” It was high time to get off the bed and get himself in hand, so to speak. Wash off the layers of grime covering his skin and flush his mouth with some ale. He wasn’t exactly self-conscious in front of other men - but Maika was hardly just another man.

The Mage was so well put together and damn near glowing that it was hard to believe that no more than two days ago he was standing at the death’s doorway. Anyone would feel awkward when confronted with that. Hell, Kormac just looked at the Mage and felt older than his years!

He needed to find a quiet corner to pray, too. There wasn’t time to do it when they were fighting their way through the catacombs and now Kormac’s soul ached for the familiar light of the prayer to chase away the shadows. It would speed up his healing, too. He wondered if the lady of the house will be amiable to borrow him a couple of items that would make the process easier.

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” he heard behind his back when he finally struggled to his feet and tried to locate his clothes. All his things have been cleaned and neatly stacked in the corner of the small room. “Still, it’s appreciated. Now, stop moving for a moment.”

A wave of cool air caught him in the back and Kormak almost dropped back to his knees when his muscles seized in shock. He stumbled and had to grasp the headboard of the bed to steady himself before a pair of icicles dropped on his shoulder. Icicles that turned out to be hands. Clawed fingers that bit into the strained muscles and _pushed_.

Kormac grunted, biting his teeth, trembling from the strain of not defending himself.

“Apologies, friend, bear with me for a moment more.”

He did his best to. Thankfully, as suddenly as the hands descended, they retreated, leaving behind a new type of numbness. His shoulder didn't hurt, but he also couldn’t feel his left hand anymore.

“Gods! What have you done!” Kormac growled, stepping back from the Mage, wary of another attack. “Take more care, I could’ve strangled you where you stand!”

It could be a trick of light, but the man seemed to flinch a little at the harsh tone - but that was probably just Kormac’s tires eyes lying to him. Maika was nothing if not foolhardy enough not to fear the Templar’s wrath and too sure of himself to even take it seriously.

He was very small, however, and Kormac still remembered the feeling of his body fitted against his side - so ridiculously light! If he landed one proper punch, it would probably end with a broken jaw for the Mage - and a swift death for the Templar.

Kormac managed to calm himself down with a bit of difficulty, rubbing at his stiff arm to encourage the blood flow.

“Does it feel any better?” The question was mildly subdued.

“Will tell you when I get the feeling back,” he snapped.

Maika frowned at that, visibly put out. “Hm, that’s not exactly what I intended to achieve.”

“I do hope so!” Ah, his pinky twitched! “What did you try to achieve by freezing my arm, then?”

The Mage shrugged. “A healing.” He walked up to Kormac, carefully, as if he was cornering a spooked horse. “I rarely have need to perform that particular craft, and even rarer still on someone else.”

That sounded - concerning, in a way that Kormac tried not to notice or consider for longer than necessary.

“I have watched the local healer at work and was sure I got it right… “ A nod. “Since we’re journeying together I should have many opportunities to improve.”

Kormac startled at that, momentarily forgetting about his arm. “We are,” he repeated numbly.

Maika didn’t even blink. “Of course. And now, since you still need help, I can show you to the healer. Afterwards we should get you acquainted with the local smith, he will be able to help you repair whatever gear you’ve got that needs it.”

Kormac could not believe the gall of the man! That presumptuous little… man on a mission much weightier than whatever Kormac imagined. He would need help, surely; one person, even so powerful, wouldn't be enough to protect the world.

He had saved the Templar’s life, that debt alone needed to be repaid.

But no, first things first before he decides anything.

There were more pressing matters waiting to be attended to. He could only consider his options once he was clean, healed and dressed. And, if possible, had a second helping of that stew.

“Come, then,” the Mage had to read his mind. “There’s warm water in the next room over. You can make yourself presentable while I fetch the healer.”

Kormac was much calmer now, with the next hour or so planned ahead – unfortunately, lack of anger made it easy for the embarrassment to slip right back into its place as he searched for the right way to admit to his one shortcoming. “About that…” he started, haltingly, turning to his clothes so he wouldn’t have to look at the Mage. “I don’t need a healer.”

Maika reacted predictably. “Nonsense! You’re a sturdy man, Kormac, but downplaying your injuries will only result in further ones…”

“That’s not what I’m saying. I just mean that I can tend to my hurts on my own. Somewhat. I…” Ah, out with it! “I have some skill at healings.”

He expected an explosion of – he didn’t know what. Laughter? Displeasure at keeping that knowledge hidden, while they’ve trekked through the catacombs and could use a good healing or two? Anger that he’d forced the Mage to surrender so many of his healing potions?

But the only thing that met him was silence, all the worse for being so unexpected. And then, a question – light and curious tone. “You’re a healer?”

The words spilled out of him like a wall of excuses, as if he was attacked and needed to shield himself. “Not much of a one, no, to be honest. Just… every man at the Convent is taught a few healing prayers to keep the flesh together when there’s no priests at hand. The prayers are time consuming, though, and silence is necessary, so I… as frantic as it was down there, there was hardly time to… I could not risk it...”

A hand landed on his shoulder once more and he stopped an instinctive flinch, expecting it to be cold. It wasn’t. He could barely feel it, though.

Why was he so flustered all of a sudden? He was a good warrior, a faithful Templar, a shining example of his Covenant’s dedication and resourcefulness. There was no need to excuse himself in front of anyone!

And, anyway, his Holy Tome has been robbed of him by the cultists; there was only so much he could do without a medium and no energy to spare.

“I will arrange for more food to be brought in,” Maika bypassed the awkwardness brewing in the room with admirable skill. “You need to rebuild your strength before you can start helping out.”

Wait, what?

 

* * *

 

Kormac went about turning himself presentable with a single-minded focus and efficiency trained into his bones by the Order. He washed, shaved and dressed. He inspected his armour and weapons, trying to ignore the shame itching under his breastbone at the notion of theft. But the weapons were good and gods surely wouldn’t frown on them being used in their name, would they?

Then he kneeled down to pray.

At some point the door to the small hut opened and closed, someone set a bowl of stew on the table in front of the fireplace, but the Templar didn’t pay them mind. He was focused on the words that spun from his lips, feeling cool and airy, washing over him like a gentle spring rain, soothing his pains and mending is flesh.  

By the time the feeling has returned fully to his arm, there was hardly a bruise left on his body and his stomach was starting to gnaw on his spine. Kormac polished the cold food left to him and stepped out of the hut.

He stopped in New Tristram on the way to the catacombs – it seemed like ages ago when he passed through the town to ask for directions and restock. The difference a little more than half a dozen of days made was unbelievable.

The signs of the tragedy were painted in broad strokes all over the previously quaint and inviting stead. People were haggard and empty-eyed as they shuffled from place to place, either powered by frantic energy or weighted down by grief. The threat of the Skeleton King has ended, but what now? Kormac knew well this sort of directionless despair; he’s seen many towns and villages brought low by Evil that didn’t rightly know what to do after the days of terror were over. Rebuilding after tragedy was sometimes harder than defeating demons that were the cause of it. At least, from what he could see, the inner part of the town was untouched – meaning that the militia has managed to keep the dead out by some miracle. But form the number of people milling around, the outskirts didn’t experience the same luck.

“You’re Kormac, right? Good to see you back on your feet!”

He startled like a colt when a young woman accosted him in the middle of the busy street. She was small, smaller even than the Mage, and very pretty. And she stared at him with an expectant look that startled him in its frankness.

“The Wizard said he’d saved you from the hands of the cultists. You best talk to uncle Deckard, then, in case there’s something you can tell us about their plans. Maika wasn’t too keen on interrogating any of them…” With a resolute nod, she grasped his forearm and pulled him along, apparently not put off by his stunned expression and lack of answers. “Come, with you awake we can finally discuss everything in peace before the Wizard runs away to chase his fate. He’s said you’re keen with healing, is that right? Then there’s some work for you in Tristram before you can follow him!”

That’s how Kormac met Lea, Deckard Cain’s niece and the unofficial leader of the town.

From the first moment she has impressed him with her untamed spirit. There was no task too big and nothing too small for the girl to put her hands on, helping where she could, barely standing still. She spearheaded the rebuilding efforts, keeping everyone on their feet in what Kormac soon recognised was a transparent attempt to stall the inevitable despair from damaging the already weakened morale of the town.

It was impressive and worth of respect, for someone so young – a woman at that! – to possess such integrity and courage!

In the following hours he’s met other members of the community that made no less of an impression in him. All of them, curiously, but not at all surprisingly, orbited around the Mage (A Wizard? Why were everyone calling him a Wizard? Didn’t he mind?).

By the grace of being Maika’s companion (even though he didn’t yet decide to follow the madman!) Kormac was made a part of the meeting the unlikely companions held in the back of the tavern. And it felt more like a war council than anything, he mused, even though the threat of the undead was more or less under control. As it turned out, the fallen star was just a part of a bigger picture that Deckard Cain painted for them in very dark colours, indeed.

Deckard Cain, in the flesh! Kormac never thought he’d live to meet the fabled last of the Horadrim. It only stood to reason that his life came to a point where he rubbed his shoulders with old-time heroes, since nothing was logical recently.

The gathering turned even more intriguing in its eclectic form from there.

Captain Rumford, a rather solid, fairly well-cut young man that looked at the Mage as if he hung the moon on the sky. It wasn’t so much adoration, as some sort of… reverence. It was at first embarrassing to witness - because as much as the Covenant preached purity in every sense and shied away from carnal exploits, Kormac has seen enough of the world in his travels to know that one should not voice his opinions about other people’s fancies. Especially, since he was a guest in the Captain’s town.

However, soon he realised that his first judgment - as usual - was rushed. That there was more to the Captain’s looks than simple fascination (which he wouldn’t scoff at _too much_ , because even he could agree that the Mage cut a rather exotic figure).

“The Mage came in at the most opportune moment,” the Vecin woman said, seeing Kormac try to decipher the mystery. “Rumford isn’t a leader material… at least wasn’t, until our friend put some faith into him. Sometimes that seems to be all that’s needed to find courage within oneself.”

The Vecin woman, Myriam, was another interesting personae. The one Kormac had the most trouble pegging down. She was old and wise, but also promiscuous and way too interested in the personal lives of others. Especially their love lives. She has not wasted a chance it inquire about his non-existent conquests and mourn his staunch celibate, lamenting that a fine man was wasting in front of her very eyes – to his eternal embarrassment. The only relief was that he wasn’t her only target – her bickering with Maika was turning into a spectacle that more than just the Templar found entertaining.

But, however inappropriate her comments and embarrassing her suggestions, she seemed to be more than she seemed. Caring in her own way about the family she found in Tristram, soothing their spirits with her own specific kind of comfort.

Then there was the blacksmith. Haedrig Eamon - a man Kormac wouldn’t wish to stand on the bad side of. Not as tall as him, but wider in every sense, arms bulging with cords of thick muscle, face chiselled from granite that got then roasted over open fire until it lost all claims of softness. The smith’s hands were scarred and big, and his expression schooled into a displeased frown that reminded Kormac of his old Weapon’s Master. This was a man to be respected without question.

That’s why, obviously, Maika spoke to him as if the man towering over him was a sensitive child. Flippancy interlaced with strange softness. There was some sort of tragedy that was painted into the blacksmith’s steely features that made him seem even less approachable than his dour countenance did.

No one was happy in Tristram - and within good reason - but, it was hard to stay down in the presence of the Mage and his unshaken attitude of an unbeatable hero. As much as old Cain was the head of the meeting, the source of knowledge everyone turned to, Maika was the force that kept sweeping them all up into its currents, unstoppable in his conviction.

Tristram was slowly raising form its knees in the time it took the nameless man they’ve found in the Cathedral to recuperate. Kormac was kept as busy as everyone else in that time – every day marching out with the scant militia to clean up the last dregs of the scourge still hanging about in the fields, so the farmers could return to them and try to salvage as much as possible. The season was already cold and rainy, and on top of that untended fields were in danger of wasting away. Hungry winter was a serious threat for the settlement that already was running itself ragged.

Lea was the one to voice that fear. “We’re already rationing whatever food there is, but I’m afraid even that isn’t going to do much if the winter is long this year. Tristram may starve.” There was no despair in her words, just determination. She wasn’t searching for pity, but for solution.

“Can you trade with Westmarch?” Kormac suggested, taken by the plight of the people he came to know and consider friends. “There’s enough food there and the nobles won’t scoff at a coin coming their way, no matter its origins.”

“That’s the problem,” Rumford muttered forlornly. “Purchasing wheat and transporting it across the land safely costs more than we have. And, to be frank, I don’t expect Westmarch traders to charge us fairly to begin with.”

With a heavy heart, Kormac had to agree. Was there something he could do!

“Why, it’s only money you need?” Maika’s voice cut through the dour mood. The Mage looked at them with confusion from his perch on the window, as if he was faced with a flock of exceptionally dull sheep. He stood up with a flourish and straightened out his robes. “I will be back before sundown.”

And with that he strode out of the room. Before anyone even got it into their heads to follow him a frosty glare of the portal alighting in the middle of the town’s square flashed through the windows.

“He’s an… unusual one.”

Kormac’s spine stiffened when the nameless man’s voice. It was rather hypocritical, he thought, coming from someone that literally fell from the sky a few days back; naked as the day he was born and with no thought in his head. But that was just his opinion.

The nameless stranger remained an enigma. It took him nearly a week before he was strong enough to walk without help and gather himself enough to have a conversation with. And still his memory was gone.

He had a warrior’s body, massive and strong, but his bearing was gentle, moods pensive. The Mage and Deckard Cain questioned him time after time, each in their own way, but to no avail. It was disheartening – because if the man’s fall was the reason for the scourge to begin, what was the guarantee that his presence won’t cause a repeat?

Kormac didn’t feel evil in the stranger, and that was reassuring, but at the same time knew that one didn’t need to be evil themselves to become a tool in the hands of misfortune.

Maika, in his humble opinion, trusted too easily.

Unless, he did indeed possess some sort of foreknowledge, since nothing seemed to faze him.

That evening Maika returned with a smug expression on his face and a bag slung over his shoulder, heavy enough to fall on the tavern’s floor with a clamber of an upturned cupboard.

“There’s more where it came from,” the Mage promised lightly when the Captain untied the strings of the bag in front of the gathered group. “I can only carry so much at a time, but if need be, I can return to…”

He never finished. When the contents of the bag spilled across the wooden planks, Lea’s arms wound around his neck in a stranglehold as the girl downright screamed into his ear.

Kormac also felt like screaming.

“You have robbed another tomb!”

But his accusation drowned under the weight of Lea’s scolding. “He saved the town, that’s what he did! This should… this should buy us a… ah, gods, I don’t even know!”

Rumford’s voice was thick as he ran his eyes over the treasure. “At least a month’s worth of grain for the town…”

“Make it two,” Haedrig Eamon weighted a handful of gold coins and trinkets in his powerful hand. “It’s good, old gold from before the King’s rule, it can buy you much. Hm, it all looks good enough to sell with little polishing necessary.”

Kormac wanted to remind everyone that the only reason the treasure was in such good condition was because it has spent a century underground. In a grave. Left there with the dead. Out of respect.

_For the dead._

But he didn’t, because the Mage was looking rather green around the gills when Lea started to squeeze the life out of him in thanks, and the way his eyebrows narrowed caught the warrior’s attention. It wasn’t pain, just – displeasure. Hands up in the air, Maika looked as if he didn’t wish to touch the girl more than necessary. Surprisingly noble and restrained, for a man who seemingly knew no restraint in any other scenario.  

However, a moment later the assumption of virtue stumbled.

The Captain, unable to contain his emotions, slung an arm around the Mage’s back and hugged him briefly to the side in a solid, manly gesture. The furrow between Maika’s eyebrows disappeared at once, his dark eyes flashed briefly and returned the fond look he was given with the usual smugness.

Kormac shook off the unsavoury assumptions and steeled his spirit. He was a better man than to judge so quickly.

“Don’t look so sour, I have brought you a gift, too.”

“I want no part in your thieving, magpie!” He growled instantly and somehow it came out more humorous than sharp, judging by the way the blacksmith snorted.

“And I’d still prefer if you were able to heal yourself quicker,” Maika’s smile didn’t waver even for second as he reached into the pouch at his side. “You need a focus and this will serve well until we find your holy books.”

The Holy Tomes! He almost forgot about them! How did the scamp know about the part they’ve played in the Order’s healings?

The thought was squashed when a half of a broken dagger was thrust into his hands. It was small - too small to serve as a weapon in any effective capacity even before it had been damaged - but just touching it was enough to raise the hair on the Templar’s head. It was not only enchanted - but filled with Holy power! Kormac looked the dagger over with astonishment and discovered a faded inscription on the side of the handle, almost rubbed away through the generous use and then long disuse.

“I'll be Blessed,” he muttered, “it had belonged to a Templar, but… so long ago.”

It had to be a sign, the coincidence was just too big and convenient. For something like that to fall into his unworthy hands out of the blue… No, not his hands.

He looked to the Mage, who was gazing at him steadily, that strange confidence in his eyes unwavering.

It was out of his hands, it would seem. His fate has been decided, tied to this strange man.

Kormac pocketed the dagger. So be it.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am slowly inching my way through the game plot-wise;O As it turns out, this is going to be a bigger undertaking than I thought at first. Just need to get through the Tristram stuff and assembling the team:)  
> Poor Kormac, I need to make life hard for himxD

By the end of the first week of their acquaintance Kormac had more questions concerning the Mage that he’s got answers for – and an unpleasant suspicion that it won’t change anytime soon. They've talked, of course, at every opportunity their rather busy schedules allowed. Maika was a curious creature, eager to learn seemingly everything about anything. A nosey little fellow. But Kormac didn’t mind, he owed the man his life, it was easy to convince himself that he could indulge that bit of harmless curiosity.

After all, if not him, Maika seemed bent on bothering the blacksmith and, taking into account Eamon’s usual surly attitude, it may lead to a death sooner or later. Better the young man spent his time pestering the Templar than poking the wounded bear.

Kormac generally didn’t mind, especially when the questions pertained to his Order and his sacred duty. He spoke of his brothers with pride whenever he had a chance - and sometimes when he had to create it himself. It was all too easy to get carried away and speak of the things that might have better stayed unspoken. Kormac was always a prideful man, after all. The Order has managed to curb that pride and turn it form a flaw poisoning his soul to better purposes. It wasn’t sinful to be proud of the good one’s been doing, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

_"I do not know much of your order.” Maika looked up from the meat roasting over the open flame._

_They were camping out on the outskirts of some dilapidated farm, using the last bits of the shed’s roof to protect them from the thin, cold rain._

_“Were you born a Templar?"_

_"No.” Kormac lowered his eyes to watch the fire dance joyfully, enjoying one of the few quiet moments they’ve had so far. “Our scripture says: As a farmer reaps his wheat, so must the order harvest and purify the weeds."_

_"You say you are a weed... But I think that even weeds have their purpose."_

_As expected, the Mage didn't understand. And why would he? He seemed barely touched by the concepts and concerns of the simple mortals, so high above them he was flying._

_"No. They strangle. They corrupt. And the crop fails. I was lucky to be taken in when I was."_

_That was that, then. They didn’t talk much after that exchange and soon enough the Mage moved closer to the fire - closer than a sane individual would - and turned in, resting his head on a rolled up coat. Kormac took the first watch without being asked._

 

* * *

 

 

He tried to control the anger he felt when memories of Jondar resurfaced, tried to hold in his harsh words and spare his new friends his wrath. The journal he took from the dead body of his former brot… companion burned against his breast, where he kept it against all reason. Kormac took it with him in the hopes that he may find in it some clue as to what turned the man away from the Light. That if he could understand even a part of it - then he might be better at protecting his own soul from corruption.

He debated reading it for a time - it was written in a code, but not a difficult one, he was sure that he can break it in little time. But, would he dare?

Should he dare? Wasn't his duty with the living, now?

He could barely find enough time to go about his new duties. The town still needed protection, the militia could always use some additional training. Whenever he had a moment to put his sword away, Leah was dragging him away to do healing or help out with lifting some beams or holding some planks together. He was a strong man, his body honed into a well-working machine able to weather an array of adversities, but he never thought to pick up carpentry. He should have, because he turned to be quite good at it.

Something to do, he allowed himself to think jokingly from time to time, for when he finally rests his weapons in the old age.

A fanciful idea, to be sure; Templars rarely ever lived long enough to see their hair go gray naturally.

And that kept bringing him back to the issue of the journal and the words Jondar spoke to him in the last moments before his heart stopped beating.

Was he back in Westmarch, he would have people to ask for advice - the leader of the Order, the older, weathered warriors who were wise and always kind to him.

In Tristram he had - no one, really. All that surrounded him were weighted down by their own woes, it would feel shameful to burden them even more with his pointless divagations and paltry doubts. What right did he have to bother Headrig, who was drowning his own pain in work? Or Rumford, a lad barely out of youthhood carrying the weight of a whole town on his shoulders? Old Cain was too esteemed and Kormac wouldn’t even dare to go to him…

The only two left to him were the Vecin woman and the Mage. And Myriam already knew too much about him - without being told, it would seem, and that made him uncomfortable.

And the Mage….

Throughout it all Maika remained politely unimpressed with his plight. Interested and supportive, but removed. He was asking questions and obviously paying attention to the answers, but he did the same with everyone else. As if he couldn’t relate to the human struggles of his companions and only watched them from behind glass, trying to understand.

It was chilling whenever Kormac allowed himself to think about it. How inhuman in many respects his strange new friend seemed.

Gods, was it only two dozens days since he’s been pulled into Maika’s chase after his twisted destiny?

Luckily, there was not much time to be thinking about anything other than trying to keep the town running, the dead away from the living, and attempting to solve the mystery of their overall existence.

The man that fell from the sky was the only thing to go by so far, but the fact that his memory was still gone was a serious setback.

In the end they’ve settled on a sword. The only trail obvious at the moment, really, the only thing that the Stranger remembered somewhat clearly. Made sense, in a way – the fallen star was built like a warrior, and what would be closer to a warrior’s heart than their weapon?

 

* * *

 

 

_The gathered men all nodded sagely to that statement and Leah scoffed. “Men are all mad.” She looked disgusted with them all._

_“Don’t count me in with that ilk,” Maika was all too quick to add. “Warriors,” he said like he meant ‘idiots’, “are quite apart from us, sensible folk.”_

_It was Rumford that snorted into his cup so hard that he had ale leaking out of his nose, and amongst reactions that followed it was easy to miss the way Haedrig rolled his eyes up to the heavens. Kormac kept his tongue, because he was a good man of faith and knew a wasp nest that shouldn’t be kicked on sight._

 

 

* * *

 

 

If gods were kind, the sword would have fallen somewhere in the vicinity of the old cathedral, where it would be easy to find. It would make tracking it easier, especially that the weather was still not in their favour keeping the days wet and cold.

So, obviously, the damned thing had shattered into pieces and each went their own way.

 

* * *

 

 

_“Good thing you have a Wizard at your side, then, no?” Myriam was, as always, trying to help in her own completely unhelpful way._

“ _She meant that I can detect strong magic resonance from certain items.” The Mage explained later on, when they were trudging West through the drowned fields, following vague directions from the old Cain and Leah’s knowledge of the land. “Like calls to like, after all, and if I’m close enough and the sword is indeed magical, as Myriam implied, I will be able to find it with little trouble.”_

_Kormac nodded in understanding. Then he exhaled loudly, when another understanding dawned. “Is this how you always find your way to the treasures?”_

_Only answer he got was a graceful shrug and a shadow of a smile._

 

* * *

 

 

Much later Kormac asked a different question - a day and a half of fruitless searching and being derailed every half a mile by groups of wild goatbeasts later...

“Don’t you mind that?” He asked in a quieter moment after a skirmish when snippets of curious thoughts usually came to him.

Maika at this point was probably getting used to the strange, random conversation starters, because all he gave the Templar was a curious look over the shoulder. “Don’t mind what?”

He stepped lightly over the puddles of gunk covering the stone path in uneven patterns. The cave was going deeper into the ground that they’ve assumed at first and it was getting more cramped as they went. The goatmen had to be able to see in the dark, because the torches on the walls and bonfires were scarce - some sections of the sprawling tangle of the corridors were pitch black. The air was stale and smelled strongly of animal waste and old blood.

Good thing they’ve left Leah to stand guard at the entrance to the tunnel. The girl was surprisingly adept at using her crossbow and finding good hiding spots when the enemies overwhelmed her, but a place for a lady this wasn’t.

“That they call you a Wizard.” Kormac lifted the shield over his head when the path led under a crack in the ceiling that dripped some foul, stinking liquid. “Isn’t that an insult to a Mage?”

Tristram was hardly some backwater sticks, people didn’t seem dim and it was hard to believe that they’d knowingly insult their saviour to his face. If it was a simple lack of knowledge, Kormac would be all too happy to correct them on it. If not... well, he’d be even happier to correct them.

“Oh, that.” Maika was all too quick to duck under his shield arm, grimacing at the falling sludge. The little yellow light that floated around his head, curiously, joined them under the cover like a living creature seeking shelter. Kormac didn't have it in him to question it. “That’s something I prefer to go by, actually. Has a nicer ring to it, don’t you think?”

No, Kormac didn’t think. He couldn’t imagine preferring to go by an insult rather than an actual, respected moniker willingly.

Oh gods, something dripped under his collar, cold and slick, and disgusting! He needed a bigger shield if he was to protect them both! This dark hole better ends soon with a piece of the sword waiting on them at its end, because even a Templar’s patience was finite!

“But how other Mages take to that, I wonder?”

The look he was given was dark and heated, and Kormac was ready to swallow his tongue. Again he’d barged in where he should have stepped lightly.

“That, my friend,” Maika said, knocking a knuckle against his chest plate, “does not concern me in the slightest.”

 

* * *

 

 

A long standing saying adhered to by the Templars’ Order was, as follows:

_“Once an enemy stands in your way, you’ll know you’re walking the right path.”_

It was a good, solid doctrine that survived over a century, because most of the time it turned out to be correct.

And it wasn’t just the case of the dead infesting the grounds around New Tristram or demons prowling the dungeons underneath it. It wasn’t even the goatmen trying to take over the fields to the West, prompted by the dark priests of the cursed order.

It didn’t take long for the Wizard (Kormac struggled a bit with that part, it felt so uncultured!) and his small entourage to met the enemy that stood behind the attacks and a big part of the misery that befell these lands.

Except it was the enemy who found them first - which was never the best outcome. The element of surprise was a precious thing Kormac was loathe to lose.

And ‘surprise’ was a good word for the leader of the cultists. A woman beautiful to an unsettling degree - as if her allure passed some unspoken line on the other side of which monstrosity started. And that on top of the giant moths clinging to her shoulders and the dress sewn together from butterfly wings and beetle-backs. The moths’ wings rustled unnervingly as they shifted, rubbing the witch’s cheeks, leaving a dusting of fine flittering powder in their wake, making her skin even more luminous and unnatural looking. Her lips were dark burgundy and her eyes so piercing it was hard to stand their stare. Unfortunately, that was where Kormac struggled to keep _his_ eyes, because the shimmering dress was very indecently cut and everytime he looked lower than the face, his wows were reminding of their existence in the scathing voice of Brother Victor.

It made listening to her slick, poisonous words even harder.

Luckily, the message was pretty straightforward - leave the sword alone or you’ll face untold suffering. The usual, then.

In some way it felt nice to finally put a face on the chaos swallowing the land. Faces were good, solid things one could talk to, recognisable; easily punchable, too.

Kormac was instructed to be a honorable man, to follow the doctrine and protect the weaker, to be friendly towards children and respectful towards women. Not this woman, though. He could easily imagine himself punching this perfect face.

Little did he know that sordid dream was to warm him up on many a night in the near future.

Maika, surprisingly, shared his violent daydreams. Surprisingly, because so far the Wizard didn’t seem to take any of their enemies seriously enough to get genuinely angry at them - the witch had to touch something in him that awoke caution and resentment. Was it because they were both magic users? Was it some sort of a turf war Kormac got involved in?

The amusement that thought brought paled quickly when the Wizard brought them back to Tristram (the second trip via the teleporting spell was still as unpleasant as it was the first time) and Cain Deckard explained to them the connections between Maghda’s coven and one of the Prime Evils.

Belial.

They were up against the Lord of Lies.

 

* * *

 

 

_“Splendid!”_

_It took a few moments of silence for the Templar to realize that he became the centre of attention of the gathered. And that made him realize that he’s spoken his thoughts out loud. Godsdamnit._

_To his surprise, Maika’s slender hand knocked into his chestplate and, when their eyes met, for the first time it seemed that they’re on the exact same verse of the same page in the same tome. “I agree, my friend. My fate is finally taking shape.”_

 

* * *

 

 

Lyndon.

 _No last name, please, just Lyndon,_ Lyndon.

 _No please, let me come with you, you seem to know a lot about markets,_ Lyndon.

 _I am not a husband material,_ Lyndon.

 _Lyndon_ that Maika looked at and listened to with honest amusement, every once in awhile casting his eyes in Kormac’s direction to make sure that his mirth is shared.

 _Lyndon_ , that Kormac struggled not to strangle with his bare hands after only few hours of acquaintance.

As unobtrusive as the man wanted to seem, his presence was like an itch that travelled up and down Kormac’s back, always impossible to reach. One he could not scratch, because he wasn’t the one making decisions there, he was merely following the Wizard following his destiny. Of course, he’s made his doubts known to Maika, had pled his case with enough eloquence - _do not let that scoundrel follow us, the way he looks at Leah is distasteful and even worse is the way he oogles your bracelets, we will wake up with our throats slit tomorrow, mark my words!_ \- and was promptly dismissed.

Against Kormac’s best attempts to prevent it from happening, Lyndon had joined their quest.

 

* * *

 

 

Kormac wasn’t convinced that the thief wasn’t going to take off with their weapons and money at the first chance that will present itself. The fool of a Wizard cared none for anything that wasn’t running in tandem with his fate or curiosity. Lyndon took to walking by his side, bending Maika’s ear at any chance, most probably trying to instil himself in the good graces of the group’s leader.

Kormac kept a watchful eye and even more careful ear on the mismatched pair and that allowed him to learn a few things on the way.

He came from Kingsport, huh? A city of whores and thieves. Fitting. He was also shameless and his tongue spilled words carelessly, unmindful of the company he was keeping. Time and time again Kormac felt his ears burn at the filthy stories and even filthier insinuations the man threw around - and each time his hands itched to either cover Leah’s ears or break Lyndon’s jaw, for a lady should not be exposed to such base manner at any time! He found some sense of vindication in the impassioned way Leah looked at their new ‘companion‘ - she was decidedly unimpressed with his inept attempts at flirting and the Templar felt calmer about her safety, if not about her innocence.

Whenever their path led back to the town to restock their supplies or deliver some goods found on the way (which happened with growing frequency, as Maika’s control over the portals stabilised and Kormac’s stomach grew used to the sensation) he tasked himself with keeping an eye on Lyndon and his sticky fingers around the scant resources the town had. And the women. Especially women.

One time he found Lyndon sneaking around the forge, so obvious in his disinterest that Kormac’s hackles rose on their own. Maika was off speaking to Cain and Leah was busy with interrogating Rumford, and with Haedrig seemingly absent, the smithy had to look like an easy loot.

Blood boiling in his veins, Kormac cornered the man. “Listen up, you scoundrel, these people already don’t have much. If I find out that anything has gone missing...”

“Calm down, friend.” Lyndon had the gall to try and pacify him. “That’s incredibly rude to accuse one of thieving with no proof to back up the accusation.”

“I don’t need more proof than your sleazy...”

“Enough!” Haedrig’s voice slammed between them like a hammer striking an anvil and, like a pair of scolded schoolboys, both men leaned back. The smith appeared as if from thin air and glared at them from under his bushy eyebrows, evoking the feeling of a god’s wrath hanging over their heads. “The thief better knows his manners.”

Half of the weapons Kormac has seen in his life didn’t seem as threatening as the big, scarred hand of Haedrig Eamon very slowly closing into a fist.

Lindon apparently shared this opinion, because he stumbled over his words uncharacteristically, all to get them out as quick as possible. “Of course, he... I do! Of course I do! You lot have never met such a well behaved thief in your life!”

The heavy glare moved to rest on the Templar. “And you, take this.” A handful of – something – was dropped into his hands; bits of shining metal and thin leather, and mail more delicate than sturdy. It reminded him of armour, but for a doll more than a man. “Take it to the madman and tell ‘im to try it on.”

Seeing Kormac’s befuddled stare, the smith heaved a sigh and rubbed his face tiredly. “I’ve repurposed some of the bits he’d brought me and some lighter pieces I had layin’ around. It won’t protect ‘im like proper armour should and you can smack ‘im one fer refusing to wear one, but at least no one will stab ‘im in the kidneys while he's not lookin’.” Another glare was distributed evenly between both men. “Someone better watch that nothing tries, aye? I’ll finish him a studded jerkin in a few days, too, should keep the fool somewhat protected.”

The show of care – gruff as it was – warmed Kormac’s heart enough that he dared to joke. “Better not make the neckline too high, or we’ll never hear the end of it.”

Haedrig Eamon looked up to the overcast sky as if asking a god or two to what had he done in his life wrong to be punished so.

Lyndon’s eyes jumped from the pile of cloth in Kormac’s hands to the smith, back to the cloth. He looked to be questioning his decision to join their quest on the grounds of insanity.

Good, he should. Their mission wasn’t an evening walk through the royal gardens! Maybe he should reconsider!

However, even as angry and resentful as he was, Kormac wasn’t above admitting that the thief could hold his own in battle...

Maybe that was a way to deal with the unwanted presence at his back and the thorn in his side? To consider the man in the light of what he could bring into their group and try to ignore the fear of what he could take away? The wastrel _did_ possess hearing much keener than any of them and his reflexes were quite sharp. The bow he carried was also nothing to sneeze at, the draw on it at the very least seventy pounds - maybe more, - and one time Kormac has seen Lyndon grab a crossbow that the enemy had dropped and set it bare handed when his own weapon lost the bowstring. Tall and willowy the man might have seemed, but his arms were made of corded muscle and his aim was unmatched.

He was not slowing them down in any way and knew how to bind his own injuries.

For that Kormac could maybe ignore the way Lyndon disappeared after each battle only to return later on with bloodied fingers and heavier pockets. It would be distinctively hypocritical to hold it against Lyndon to scavenge, but not against Maika.

Gods, it never ceased to annoy him how easily the two took to one another! Now he had two magpies to content himself with, how joyful.

Time after time he wondered if he'd made a good choice. Time and time again, as the days dragged on in the loathsome weather and the threat of the Darkness loomed over the lands seemingly heavier with each step they took. He wondered where did his companions even found enough spare energy for the occasional bursts of levity - Kormac had none and that usually left him to be the butt of the jokes passed around, which didn’t improve his mood at all.

 

* * *

 

 

They were, once more, trudging across the sunken fields, guided through the marshes by the faint sense tickling at the edges of Maika’s awareness, whispering to him possible locations of the sword shard. Knees deep in mud and pelted by a relentless deluge, surrounded by a vicious, mutated wildlife, they’ve pushed forward, because what else was there to do?  

“Uh, I can’t think of many things less pleasant than running in wet britches.”

“Oh, certainly, friend.”

“Yes, I agree.”

“Words stolen right out of my lips, my good man.”

Kormac blushed faintly, because of course, how was his comment to go unnoticed when he had three bodies pressing against him from all sides, all warring to hide underneath the shield he rested on his shoulder to cover himself from the rain. It was a mite uncomfortable and made walking something of a challenge when three pairs of feet actively fought for space with his and each other. Still, they made do.

“We need to find you a bigger shield,” Maika groused from under his right arm, for once not wasting his magic on vanity. He had little to spare, after their last skirmish.

“Once we get back to town I’ll shake the traders for one,” Leah promised resolutely from the other side.  

Kormac wasn’t about to argue. His kite was slowly wearing out - the wood started to splinter and the straps in his palm already had to be fixed twice. If they snap one more time before he gets back to the town he’ll be forced to abandon the whole thing.

“No need for you to do it, Leah,” Kormac said, knowing that the girl was eager to return to her uncle’s side. “I can walk up to the blacksmith on my own.”

An elbow nudged him in the back. “Oh, just make sure you walk slowly, Kormac. At least until your britches get dry.”

Muffled sniggers rung around him and Kormac had no idea what caused them. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, it was most probably some joke at his expense, but… “And why is that, thief?” He asked, wary.

“Good ladies of Tristram deserve a nice long eyeful every once in awhile, is all.” Lyndon was all too quick to elaborate. “Raises the morale of the town, you know.”

He was sure there was something filthy in there! There had to be, because the bastard was laughing openly, stepping on his feet when the spasms wavered his balance. Kormac could not sooner stop the flush heating his face than he could stop the rain from falling.

He quickened his step and one well-aimed swipe with his foot resulted in a wet squelch behind him and one less body pushing under his shield. Lyndon squealed when he landed ass-first in a puddle, but he didn’t stop laughing.

“You hear that slander?” Kormac snarled at Maika. “Ungodly words!”

And, damn him, the Wizard chuckled.

“Now, now, friend, I am sure that the good ladies of Tristram are virtuous, gods-loving women of the best breeding.”

Kormac startled at that. “Of course! I’ve never said any different! It’s not them! It’s just…”

“Just?”

“It’s just that…” Gods, a moment more and the water will start to turn into steam on his face. “I have taken holy wows! I can’t...”

“Oh?” Leah joined the discussion from his other side. He completely forgot she was… she heard… that was simply dreadful! “Is that why women can’t join your covenant?”

“No…” he stammered, not expecting the double-sided assault.

“Oh, they would distract the poor men, certainly.” She didn’t sound pleased with him for some reason.

“No, that’s…” That was exactly that, but he daren’t say it.

“So, tell us, Kormac,” Lyndon finally caught up. “Are the good ladies of Tristram distracting you with their lusty gazes?”

“...lusty…?”

Forget the steam, he was going to burst into flames where he stood when his brain finally connected the dots and deciphered the essence of the teasing. Oh, Light bless him, wet britches? _Long_ gazes?!

It took all of his concentration and willpower - both honed over a decade of service - to keep his eyes from wandering down, from making sure that his privates were, well, still _private_!  

Thankfully, the enemies choose that exact moment to ambush them, the khazra erupting from the ground roaring wildly, led by a handful of downtrodden-looking cultists covered in mud and blood. Kormac used the distraction well and by the end of the battle his face almost went back to its natural colour.

He’d prefer to suffer a hard hit to the head that would maybe daze him enough that the memory of that conversation would simply slip away from him. Alas, no such luck. He was forced to remember these shameful insinuations whenever he was back in Tristram. Every time he had to take off his armour to help the townsmen raise scaffoldings, build fences or push carts loaded with wood and stone, he was doubly aware of the looks that followed him around.

Good ladies of Tristram had sharp eyes and Kormac could feel their gazes on his back wherever he went. It was at best distracting, at worst rather humiliating to be treated like a slab of meat on a butcher’s block.

Damn thief! Damn the scoundrel for bringing his attention to the things he would rather not know about!

What wouldn't he do to be treated with a bit of respect.

His favourite dagger disappearing right out of his belt soon after was nearly the straw that broke the donkey’s back!

Unsurprisingly, it was the Wizard that stopped him from strangling Lyndon to death in the middle of the town's square.

“I will get you a new dagger,” Maika laughed at his predicament, pulling Kormac away by the arm, walking  him in the direction of the inn. “I will get you ten new daggers if you only stop frowning, Kormac. With all my power I can do nothing to fix that wrinkle between your eyebrows once it sets!”

And Kormac knew he would do it too - give him enough daggers to last him a lifetime. Maika never walked past any trinket that could be used. And, the worst of it was that Kormac himself wasn’t untouched by that sinful vice.

Ever since his decision to join the Wizard, he’d lost the count of the number of pendants and bracelets and precious stones he was given, and even though he never stopped complaining about it, he kept them all. He felt ashamed, but he wasn’t stupid enough to give up on a tactical advantage that powerful spells could add to his skills.

He’d only ever refused the rings, one thing too intimate and strangely personal for him to accept. But the rings have always found their way into his pockets anyway. Once he's found one dangling at the end of his laces, even!

Which left him in a frustratingly confusing position of having to keep his eyes peeled for things disappearing from his pockets as well as for those appearing inside of them with no warning.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, meet the demon huntress:D  
> Also, oh no, stormclouds over poor Kormac! :O

 

The rain didn’t let go when the night came. It kept on, steadily drenching the last shreds of clothing and willpower the group has had, before they’ve finally discovered shelter. The ruins were ancient and crumbling, but the walls that the age had leaned together offered a sort of a roof and with a bit of inventive thinking, their coats and cowls fastened overhead and a spark of magic to wax the fabric, they’ve been relatively dry. Leah, constantly surprising Kormac with her resourcefulness, gathered enough dry material to serve as a feed for the low fire Lyndon has managed to muster up. It was a pretty pathetic as far as shelters went - the fire was low and still the smoke scratched down their throats, because there was no way for the draught to carry it away - but it was enough to warm up a cup of water, a bit of bread, and a pile of tired bones.

Even that crumb of respite was welcome after the ordeal with the dead little girl and her undead family.

“I used to do this when I was a little girl,” Leah mused when they’ve all finally settled in for the night. She was stuck between the fire on one side and Kormac on the other, the Templar trying to shield her from the cold breeze with his bulk. “We used to travel all over the world with Uncle Deckard, sleeping under the stars and braving the elements. He taught me how to get a fire going, how to find water, how to… well, survive, I guess.”

Silence settled over the camp after that, disturbed only by the soft crackling sound of the flames slowly  devouring damp sticks and hard moss. Kormac took a moment to take stock of himself and his companions. Leah looked about ready to drop - pale and weary, but for the eyes that still shone with excitement. The memories she shared with them were happy and he was glad, he didn’t want to ever see her losing that indomitable spirit.

“My introduction to camping was, sadly, much less pleasant,” the thief admitted lightly. “I’m a city dweller, born and bred, and damn proud of it. Roughing it up with no walls around feels unnatural. Unpleasant, even; the whole nature thing isn’t what I was led to believe it to be!”

“I’m sure you’re overreacting.” Leah’s voice was the driest thing around.

“Oh no, no, I am absolutely serious and truthful. I get a rash if I don’t feel cobblestone under my feet once in every three days.”

The scoundrel was perched on a broken off pillar to the left, a bit above them, blessed with a good view around their little encampment. He looked a bit worse for wear, but still alert, still watchful. His bandaged hands were busy with cleaning and repairing the arrows and bolts he’d picked out of the carcasses after the battle.

“And you, Kormac? I bet that you were born with a tiny sword in one hand and a copper dinner plate in the other, rearing to hunt demons!”

“I bet all Templars start out like that.” Expectedly, Leah joined in on the teasing. “Fierce and adorable with their tiny armours.”

How was an image of an armed child in any way adorable? And why was it that the only time when Lyndon and Leah came to agreement was when it came to teasing him?

“So, were you, Kormac?”

“Were I what?”

“The cutest little tot around the good ol’ Covenant?”  

Kormac opened his mouth to deliver an answer, but no words came.

Was he? A child? He had to be, once, everyone started like that. Maybe even an innocent one - children were innocent, right? It was only later that the call of Darkness was easier to understand, that the sins piled up when conscience joined the fray.

Before he fell, he had to be something pure. Otherwise the Covenant wouldn’t waste time trying to save him, right?

Maika’s voice startled them all. “I’m also curious.”

“ _You_ are supposed to be sleeping!” Kormac answered rather testily, quietly grateful for a chance to change the subject.

And it worked, too, because Leah’s displeased glare zeroed in on the Wizard and even Lyndon looked at him with a distinct lack of amusement. After the scare he already gave them today by falling on his knees in a gore-covered meadow, then hanging limply from the Templar’s shoulder for a mile of tedious march, he was ordered to sleep off the headache and exhaustion under the threat of being tied down. And Leah knew her knotwork, thank you kindly.  

These weak spells were happening more often. It made Kormac fear that one day soon he won’t be quick enough - strong enough - to get to Maika in time. He was just learning the healing craft as they went, after all. His first field healing was a rushed, frightfully clumsy affair. It was more akin to slapping a piece of cloth over a gaping wound, barely enough to staw the blood for a moment, only barely, _miraculously_ , enough. He’d never seen himself as an exceptionally skilled healer, that was usually Jondar’s.... that wasn’t his forte. Especially that Maika’s hurt wasn’t physical most of the time.

Now, as exhausted as he was himself, Kormac wondered if he had some sort of a spell in his own meager repertoire that would put the man out for a few hours. At least until dawn.

Worn muscles protesting, the Templar rose from his place and shuffled to where the Wizard rested with his back against their packs, against the trunk of a withered oak that made for the third wall of their small shelter. He filled his travel mug from the wineskin that was slowly warming by the fire and handed it to the man, carefully gauging his state. With his skin so light it was hard to say if Maika was any paler than usual, but his hand shook slightly when he took the cup, which was worrying.

“This should help you sleep,” Kormac muttered, aware of two more pairs of concerned eyes boring into his back. “We will wake you with the sun, so get all the rest you can.”

It went unspoken within this little band that none of the watches went to the Wizard. He never asked for it and they never made a fuss about it.

Maika drank the wine in one go, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste. He smiled at Kormac with something approaching gratefulness while handing the cup back and saying, “I intend to rest, as soon as our guest decides to come closer and introduce themselves.”

There was a dagger in Kormac’s hand before he even knew to reach for it and he could hear Lyndon’s bowstring creak on the pull. Leah was a bit slower, but her own crossbow was in easy reach regardless.

Maika lifted himself into a sitting position and spoke loudly, “You can join us by the fire if you wish.” And Kormac used the last shreds of his waning patience to refrain from smacking the fool over the head.

Under their wary gazes, a shape melted away from the shadows opposite their shelter and flowed to stand in front of them, like a scrap of darkness illuminated faintly by their bonfire.

It was a human, and that calmed them some. A tall and willowy one, dressed in black leathers that looked sturdy and practical - for a moment Kormac wanted to grab the Wizard by the shoulders and point out how he could only gain from imitating such style. The stranger’s face was hidden in the shade of a voluminous hood and additionally shielded by a red scarf - a splash of colour so unexpected on the expanse of black that it looked like a wound at the first glance.

The lack of horns, scales and growling stilled Kormac’s armed hand, but only so. He was tense as a string, ready to defend his companions at a moment’s notice. His attention didn’t waver until a soft palm rested on his shoulder.

“Peace,” Maika said for all to hear. “We’re in no danger.”

The stranger shifted at that, a tiny move from foot to foot. Kormac expected to hear the leathers creak, but no sound followed. They were well oiled and cared for.

“It’s a bold promise to make,” the voice came from behind the hood and was Kormac a hound, his ears would perk right up. The voice was hushed, low and gravelly, and _undoubtedly_ female.

Maika, of course, didn’t act surprised.

“You only got so close, because I allowed it,” he said lightly.

“You’ve only known of my presence, because I didn't bother to conceal it,” she answered in kind.

His black eyes never lowering, the Wizard very deliberately knocked his knuckle into the ground by his hip. The flare of magic was instantaneous - a net of light exploded under their feet into a complicated mosaic woven out of blue glow like a trapped lightning. It stretched all the way to the trees and curled around their shelter, and Kormac almost choked on the scolding words that wanted to escape him. The little fool never stopped casting when he was supposed to be resting!

The woman looked at the mandalas under her feet, pose impassive, silent in the shade of her cowl. “Impressive. But all the same it wouldn’t stop me if I… Shadow!”

If it as a name, it was an aptly chosen one, because the animal appeared out of nowhere. An beast covered in dark fur and numerous scars that could be a wolf if it was maybe half the size. It trotted to the fire and slumped next to it, it's back to the Wizard and the Templar, muzzle resting on the folded front paws.

And then, as if their evening wasn’t strange enough yet, it spoke: “Come, Velka, stop with this foolishness and rest, regain your strength.” The regal head turned and a pair of intelligent, golden eyes bore into the Wizard. “It’s safe.”

The woman’s shoulders lowered in clear resignation and she stepped into the shelter without a comment. The traps flickered out one after another before Maika slumped back against the tree, exhaustion clear to see.

Leah slowly released her breath and, wide-eyed, looked to Kormac for guidance. Eh, gods.

 

* * *

 

“I came from the East,” the Huntress said later on, over her own meager meal. “I‘ve seen destruction caused by the demons and followed its trail to these lands. It seems to be the centre of the chaos.”

“It may as well be,” Kormac admitted, rubbing his eyebrow thoughtfully. It was concerning to hear that Maghda’s influence stretched that far. He was sure that Tristram was the epicentre of the malignancy, but what is it wasn’t the only one? “A Star fell on the old cathedral and drew all kinds of evils out of hiding.”

“Then there’s work here for me, Templar. We cannot rest while demons prowl the land.”

Her face, when the shawl finally came off, was startlingly young. She would be pretty if she didn’t bear that same haggard look that all Demon Hunters seemed to possess, no matter where they’ve hailed from. A look of someone always hungry for something that they’ll never have enough of. Velka, the wolf said her name was. She looked Northern to him, with her dark hair and dusky skin, maybe up form Sharval? There were a few Templars that bore similar looks he knew in passing.

However, the most arresting feature was her eyes. Wide, deeply set and shrouded in a bloody glow. The most recognisable sign of a Hunter.

“It’s not only demons you will meet, though.” Kormac spoke after a moment. “You’ll see humans here, as much as that name still applies to them. Cultists of Maghda. They are looking to free their Master, Belial. We are looking to stop them.”

Leah and Lyndon remained silent, even though the Templar could sense the torrent of questions trying to break the dam of Leah’s lips and flood the Huntress. A true niece of Deckard Cain she was, curious above all else. Lyndon’s regard was, as expected, centered more on the way leather tightened around Velka’s thighs when she sat down - with minute detours to the custom crossbow laying at her side. A one-track mind man, truly.

Maika, surprisingly, remained silent throughout the conversation, leaving Kormac to play the role of the leader and a host. His eyes opened and closed slowly, exhaustion clear, and the Templar wanted nothing more than to press his fingers over his eyelids to keep them closed. Maybe then the fool will finally fall asleep.

The wolf was happily ignoring all of them, laying with his side plastered to Leah’s thigh, apparently satisfied with his accommodations. At least one of them was, good.

“Do you know how to stop them, then?”

“Somewhat.” Kormac didn’t have much to say about that, so far their plans were based on keeping the culists away form the sword of the stranger.

Velka’s regard was constant and unnerving, but Kormac quickly got used to it. Hunters and Templars always exhibited healthy respect towards one another, their views collided on many points and they worked well together whenever the need arose. Her narrowed stare didn't subside for a long moment, and when it finally did she looked to the Wizard.

“You’re far from Xiansai.”

Impassive statement rose Maika from the stupor enough for a smug smile to appear on his face.

“I’m going where my fate calls me.”  

“Your fate calls to fight demons in the strange lands?”

“My fate is to save the world. Everyone has to start somewhere.”

Against Kormac’s fears, she didn’t laugh - she didn’t outwardly react to such a bold boast. She just looked to the wolf, the wolf looked back, and that seemed to be it. Kormac was grateful for small mercies, he really wasn't eager to recount the whole quest; not when he himself wasn’t sure of the sanity of carrying it out.

Not long after that, the watches were split and the group turned in, leaving Leah to take the first one.

Much to his surprise, Kormac fell asleep the moment his eyes closed.

_He dreamed of a land made of black ash. Ground under his feet cracked form decades of drought, burning his feet even through the sturdy heels of his trabelling boots.The heat seemed to come from down below the ground instead of ahead, as there was no sun visible over the land. A heavy grey haze shrouded everything and the air itself seemed heavy. It smelled of burning - wood and flesh, and hot stone._

_“The Belly of the Beast” Kormac thought, not really knowing why._

_He looked around, but there was nothing in sight, but more of the same scalded wasteland where nothing grew. Only heat, and ash, and the constant sound of buzzing in his ears - like millions of flies feeding on carrion. Like a shadow of a battlefield after a war that didn’t yet happen._

_When the snow started to fall from the shrouded sky Kormac looked up. It was cold, colder than snow had any right to be, and it hissed at the contact with the ground, creating foul smelling steam that raised more ash into the air. It was hard to breathe and even harder to see. Something burned his chest, under his plates, a heat of molten metal scalding his sternum..._

He woke up to a wet nose nudging his cheek and hot huffs of blood-scented breath. The wolf looked at him for a moment and Kormac was certain that the golden eyes judged him lacking.  

 

* * *

 

Since Kormac took the last watch it was up to him to say farewell to the Huntress.

“I would like to travel with you for a time,” she said as she packed up her weapons and straightened out her travelling cloak. “But my calling is easier to answer on my own.”

They would slow her down, was the unspoken part. Kormac agreed, they would. Hunters rarely ever paired up on their hunts for the same reason Templars did. Light had to be swift on its feet if it hoped to catch up to the Darkness.

“I will keep an eye out for Maghda’s cultists, regardless,” she promised.“If I come across anything that can aid your case, I’ll make sure to inform you.”

Kormac wondered how, but then his eyes followed hers and landed on a big, black raven sitting on top of a nearby crumbling column, and he didn’t ask. The wolf was nowhere to be seen, after all.

“Good hunting,” he wished instead, reaching out.

Her handshake was hard, her smile even harder. “Likewise, Templar.”

She melted into the morning mist without a trace, leaving Kormac standing amongst his sleeping companions. The sun was still to rise fully over the horizon, but the rain has at least ceased and there was no better time to move out than the present.

He shook Leah’s shoulder gently and unceremoniously kicked Lyndon in the backside. Then, smirking slightly at the grumbling, he went to wake the Wizard.

Maika slept like a stone, didn't even look like he's changed positions since falling asleep. But he seemed a bit better than the day before, the shadows around his eyes smoothed out, his cheeks took in some blood. Kormac felt a wave of relief wash over his spirit at the sight.

He planned to shake the man awake much as he did with Leah, but his hand didn't yet touch the Wizard's shoulder when Maika’s eyes snapped open and bore into Kormac across the still stretch of crackling air.

“Time to move on,” Kormac didn't know how he's managed to push the words past the cotton filling his throat, but he did. “Up with you!”

Then he stood and moved away, careful to make it obvious he's not running. That he's not afraid.

After breakfast, consisting of cold jerky and thin wine, the spirits in the camp lightened some. With food in his stomach the Templar was almost done convincing himself that the eyes that looked into his soul this morning were as he knew them, that the black expanse of nothingness was just a trick of shadows.

As the group moved out, he stayed behind for a moment to make sure that the remains of the bonfire are properly kicked apart, and to mark the campsite for any future use. It was a custom of the Templars, to mark safe places that could be used by others.

He carved a sigil into the bark of the ancient oak, noting briefly how easily his blade went into the wood. The three was gray and withered, the leaves falling from its crown in a curtain of over-early decay. He didn't notice it yesterday, but then, it was dark and miserable, and they had different concerns.

Shrugging the unease off, Kormac did his best not to notice the patch of yellowed grass where the Wizard had slept.

 

* * *

 

He should not have expected to be let off the hook, but he hoped that he won’t have to dig up these old bones from their resting place - he’s had enough walking dead to content himself with at the moment. But, as with everything that caught Maika’s curiosity, the matter of Kormac’s youth was never far from the Wizard’s quicksilver mind.

The curiosity came to head soo enough. Kormac, when he thought about it later, was dismayed at how easily he’d allowed himself to be herded into a corner - he practically stood with his back to the wall himself and cheerfully awaited to be interrogated.

Thankfully, Leah and Lyndon weren’t present for the retelling of his sordid beginnings.  

And it has started so innocuously, too, with Maika asking a few innocent questions, praising his growing skill with healing. The night was dark around their lookout - pushed out towards the fields, with a sleeping town behind their back. Two sword pieces in, they’ve been quite confident and the spirits ran high, the Stranger reacted to the closeness of the sword and the old Cain promised that he’ll be able to put it back together when even Headrig shook his head in resignation.

It was a nice enough night that even standing watch at the outskirts of Tristram didn’t seem like much of a hardship. Kormac drew the straw, accepted his shift and marched up to the outpost, leaving his companions to recover before the next excursion into the monster-ridden lands. It was an hour or so in when he felt a presence approaching him from behind and a whisper reached him before his instincts got into motion.

The Wizard had slept for the least two days so Kormac wasn’t really surprised at seeing him up at this time of night - it was good to see the man back to full strength, proud swagger back in place and the decolletage on display. And it was - nice - in a way, to spend time together without the constant need to watch the backs of two more people. Or, in Lyndon’s case, the hands. It reminded Kormac of the first days of their quest, when it was just him and Maika, ad his barely comprehensible destiny.

It was so nice that it has pulled Kormac into the false sense of security. Made him feel like it’s alright to ask personal questions about things that were not his business at all. But the meeting the Demon Huntress, albeit brief, made him curious. Xiansai was a long way from Khanduras and Maika’s accent didn't quite match…

Asked, the Wizard was surprisingly forthcoming.

“I was born in there, but I’ve studied magic in Caldeum for years.” The Mage shrugged and for the first time since Kormac knew him, he looked uncomfortable. “They’ve taught me much, but I outgrew them. Once you outgrow a garment, it’s hard to find it comfortable anymore, so I left.”

That wasn’t even half of the truth, Kormac suspected, but he didn't sense a lie, so he didn’t demand more for now.  

That bit of honesty was enough to prompt him to unspool the whole unfortunate story of his Initiation at the merciful hands of the Inquisitors. It was a story that brought him shame, but telling it now - for the first time in his life telling it to a stranger outside of the covenant, to someone he’d learned to trust in such a short time. It felt freeing - clearing the air between them, in a way reassuring his companion that even though he was not a good man, he was free of sin nowadays.

But the only answer to his confession was silence.

Silence that became heavy and thick, enough to shatter at one wrong move, and Kormac’s voice died in his throat when he finally turned his head and looked at the Wizard.

Maika didn’t move from his side, but it seemed as if he reared as far away from the Templar as possible. As if he suddenly turned into a stone statue, his face paled even more and the dark eyes stared at the Templar without blinking for an uncomfortably long moment. For the first time since he knew him, Kormac realised, the Wizard has been left speechless.

And when he finally found words, they weren’t what the Templar expected to hear.

“They what…?” He all, but gasped, eyes narrowing in a glare. “You’re telling me… they did what to you?” HIs hands did a strange little thing - as if he wanted to reach out, but thought better of it.

Kormac, confused, leaned away from the heat of that glare. His instincts warred with him to pick up his shield and prepare for a barrage of ice or fire, but he fought them down.

“ _I’m sorry._ ”

It were these words that froze him in the spot.

“I’m sorry to hear… that. You were treated like an animal… no, worse than that!” Slender hands clenched into fists surrounded by sparks. “This is no magic, this was… some senseless botchery!”

There was anger in him, harsh words awaiting to be spoken, but Kormac swallowed them all. The Mage was so young, so inexperienced, so _inhuman_ . How could he blame the man when he _didn’t know any better_?

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” He said instead, eyes firmly staring into the distance beyond the barricade, hands clenched to keep them from shaking. “I was not a good man, but they still took pity on me, took my grievous sins away from me and left me pure.”

“There’s a difference between a vessel that’s pure and one that’s merely empty,” Maika’s voice was soft, but his words no less scathing.   

Kormac bit his lip in defiance and said no more until the Wizard left as quietly as he appeared.

The night was long.

 

* * *

  
  
It soured things between them. Enough that Kormac decided to sit out the excursion into the flooded tombs a couple days later. He watched the small group leave the town and tried to ignore Lyndon’s proud smirk and Leah’s worried gaze. His excuse was that now, that the rain has stopped, the enemies may chose to attack the town in greater numbers and someone has to stay back to defend it.

Maika didn’t ask him to go and Kormac did his best not to meet his eyes.

Unfortunately, it soon became obvious, the punishment wasn’t as much directed at the tactless Wizard, as much as at the Templar himself.

Kormac worried. He trusted the thief as far as he could throw him and even though Maika was stupidly powerful, he still needed someone to shield him from time to time, to pull him back when he charged in without a thought for his own safety. He still needed an arm to lean on when he exhausted himself with some infeasible feat of power. The scoundrel was liable to save his own skin more than care for another’s and Kormac worried that the man would use the Wizard’s weakness for his own gain. Maika’s arms were heavy with the charmed gold, after all.

And Leah? He’s seen the lecherous way the thief had eyed the girl in, he had no doubts what thoughts breed in the man’s head. Leah was strong and smart, of course, but she wasn’t as worldly as she’d like to look and Kormac worried about her.

By the half-day’s mark he was a nervous wreck.

Even more so when he’s caught the eye Myriam who seemed to see right into his soul. She laughed at him and shook her head, as if she knew exactly what he’s meant to achieve and how it backfired on him.

Kormac has spent the rest of the morning with the militia, working hard on enforcing the walls around the town. Captain Rumford was cautiously optimistic, spirit uplifted by the recent successes and the betterment of the weather. Everyone seemed uplifted, the fear and despair seemed to drift away along with the rainclouds.

And it was only Kormac who was haunted by the bad omens hanging over his soul.

After a rationed lunch he sequestered himself in his room in the inn and, for the first time, opened up Jondar’s journal.

Reading it didn't make him feel better.

 

* * *

 

 

By the end of the day Kormac’s heart was shadowed by doubt, Deckard Cain was dead, the Stranger was gone and the newfound hope crumbled around them like struck glass.  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yey, another chapter:)  
> You will notice that I'm changing the timeline a little - just to make it have more sense within the story;]

During the funeral Leah kept an admirable composure, but Kormac knew better than to voice any sort of praise; her pain was obvious and the best he could do was to let her keep her dignity. He wasn't terribly good at providing emotional support, so he stayed back, silent, hoping his presence was enough to show the girl that she's not as alone as it had probably seemed to her in that dark moment.

It was a quick affair, due to the conditions, but nonetheless as dignified as they could make it. Leah chose a pyre as a matter of course - there would be nothing worse than seeing Cain’s body dig its way out of the grave, nothing left in its empty husk, but an insatiable hunger for flesh. To see the wise, erudite and kind man they've known and in short time learned to rely on turned into a nothing more than one more shambling, moaning monstrosity would be truly horrific. No, they could not risk that happening.

Kormac took part in building up the pyre and for once his steps weren’t followed by the hungry gazes of the good ladies of Tristram. He wished that he’d been able to take joy form that, but the joy seemed like a strange concept at the time.

The day was cold and damp with the fog solid over the fields, but the fire rose above it, because the Wizard ordered it to. No one  could afford to spend a lot of time outside of the town’s gates.

Afterwards, many townspeople ended up in the Slaughtered Calf, without previous agreement - as if pulled in by the treads of despair hanging in the air, men and women crowded close to one another, trying to find some solace in the warmth of those still living. Myriam bundled Leah up in her colourful cloak and pulled her away form the gloomy atmosphere; she led the girl easily to the Vecin cart with a look over her shoulder saying that Leah will be spending the night there.

Good, that was good. Myriam, for all of her strange ways and loose tongue, was a tender woman with a big heart and kindness to spare, Leah could sorely use that. The girl didn’t need to see anyone attempting to get drunk on the weak whiskey and watered down wine.

Kormac didn’t try, of course, his wows denied him seeking even that simple comfort. Instead, he fashioned himself a guardian over the crowd.   

Although his services were unneeded so far; the mood in the tavern was dour, silence prevailed, disturbed only by the sounds of alcohol being poured and an occasional sniff here and there. The faces around looked grey through the veil of smoke from the fireplace and numerous pipes, features only a day ago bright with hope now darkened with despair. Hands, only yesterday strong with conviction, today were limp and purposeless.

Kormac has seen many people brought low by tragedy, many villages and towns broken by the Evil, and it never became any easier to witness. Especially, that now, here, most of the faces in sight were familiar to him. This wasn’t some outpost that he’d pass through without notice, just another element of ever-changing landscape that he pushed through on a mission to rid world of Darkness. He’d spend nearly a month in Tristram, he’d been working and eating alongside these people, he knew the names of their children… But when the Evil he always chased after came into their homes, under their roofs – all the while he was present and could do nothing about it!

“Don’t look so grim.”

A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, startling Kormac briefly. He looked up from the cup of thin ale he’d been cradling for a while without even taking a sip, staring into the murky liquid as if he could divine from it his next course of action.

Rumford’s face was drawn, as he pulled a stool and settled beside the Templar, invading his quiet corner with a cup of ale of his own. There were healing wounds on the Captain’s body; the way he cradled one arm close to the chest was indicative of a bigger damage he’d received in the skirmish with the cultists that invaded the town. He carried himself well in that fight, Kormac had to admit, bravely and with a degree of skill ways above what a simple farmer from a few weeks ago could even dream of. He would make a fine Templar.

Rumford noticed the silent assessment and smirked somewhat sheepishly. “It’s nothing, just a sprain. The Healer already looked it over and if I don’t put too much pressure on it, it should heal without a trace within a fortnight.”

With the current state of affairs in the region – it was a tall order to protect the sprain from further damage.

“You can have a look at it, if you want,” the youth offered with a shade of a smile. “I’ve heard you’ve got some formidable healing skills of your own.”

Kormac huffed, bemused, and was instantly startled by how rough he sounded. Gods, he was tired, he hasn’t slept through the night and before…

…it felt like he hasn’t slept in years.

A drop of Maika’s magic potion wouldn’t go amiss, at least his body would feel better. But he shunned the thought, as he did with everything that touched the man lately. He barely deserved to feel better, anyway.

“Did the fool tell you that?” He asked instead, lifting the cup to his lips.

“Which one, the thief or the Wizard?” Rumford answered with a question of his own.

Ah, yes, that made his lips crack in a miniscule smile.

Come to think of it, neither of the men were present. Lyndon, he hasn’t seen since Cain’s death and even then the thief kept to the back, out of the way and mostly out of sight, visibly uncomfortable with the onslaught of emotions raging around him. Afterwards, Kormac didn’t think to keep an eye on him – but wouldn’t be surprised to learn that the scoundrel abandoned them. It would be a fitting end to that unfortunate acquaintance.

And Maika…

“He’d sequestered himself in Cain’s home,” the Captain, surprisingly perceptive, answered his unfinished thought. “With the sword and the books. Wanted to get him out for a meal, but he wouldn’t have it. Seems to me…”

“Hm?” Kormac nodded when the silence started to stretch.

“Seems to me that it’d be best if _you_ tried to talk him out.”

Kormac flinched and wanted to turn away from the young Captain, but became trapped by a pair of wide hazel eyes that stared at him frankly and with hope. Gods, the boy was so young; Kormac kept forgetting how young most of his companions were.

“He may just listen to you,” Rumford continued quietly. “Gods know that he has little time for anyone else.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Why did these people keep believing that he had any influence over the Wizard leading them all? More than once someone came to him to beg a favour from Maika, believing that it will go a longer way than asking in person. Hells, come to think of it, even Headrig relied on Kormac to keep the man properly clothed and armed.

And speaking of the blacksmith. “And why’s that, pray tell?”

Both Rumford and Kormac jumped in fright and then blushed in humiliation. How could’ve a man so big and heavyset manage to sneak up on them? The ale wasn’t that strong! Were they this tired?

Regardless, Haedrig's stony glare told them that it didn't matter, he already disapproved.

Blessed be, no one in Kormac’s life had ever disapproved as harshly as Haedrig Eamon, not even the Meister of the Order.  

“Asking why‘re you wasting time here, instead of getting the madman fed and watered.”

There was no answer that Kormac could give him, every possible excuse that came to mind sounded weak and childish to his own ears. He could hide behind the fear of failure - but that would be the biggest failure of all, wouldn’t it. Especially here, amongst the people he'd already failed once, looking up to him with hope, surrounded by women and children he knew by their names.

What he had gleaned from Jondar’s journal wasn’t reassuring in the slightest, true, but it was only his problem. Much bigger picture begged the Templar to get off his ass and start acting like a member of the Order ought to.

 

* * *

 

He’d found the Wizard on the floor, surrounded by stacks of books, lengths of parchment and an ungodly mess of melted wax and burned out wicks. It looked that when the candles finally went out, Maika, instead of acquiring new ones, just let them as they were and simply called the magical light to hover overhead. Such a scatterbrained thing to do.

Such a magical thing to do.

“Ah, there you are,” the man said without lifting his head up from the book. “Good. Find yourself a chair and sit down, I'm almost finished.”

Kormac stalled in the doorway, surprised by the matter of fact tone and the lack of – well, anything. He didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t this. Not knowing what else to do, He entered the room fully and carefully made way through the small explosion of parchment to where his companion was nesting amongst it.

Maika startled briefly when a steaming cup was showed into his face, and finally looked up, confusion reflected in his eyes.

“Eat,” Kormac commanded.

“I'm not hungry.”

“Have you eaten today, then?”

“Today? Not sure, I was rather busy.”

“Then eat.”

Usually, he was the one told to stop and take stock of himself, the reverse of it felt strange and unnatural. Maika took the cup of hot soup from his hand and sipped from it absently, returning to the book. That was alright with the Templar, the Wizard was obviously in search of something important. Kormac found himself a place to sit, out of the way, but close enough to stay in easy reach - he replaced the cup in his companions’ hand with a fresh meatbun once its been emptied and Maika hardly seemed to notice. He nibbled on the crust much in a way a cat would, starting with small bites, unsure of the thing until he got to the meat.

Kormac had an amusing idea - of himself sitting on the floor in a messy room, feeding crumbs to some exotic bird. It entertained him for a few minutes, before he had to deliver another bun.

Scrolls strewn around were covered in tight, meticulous writing of the same hand, doubtlessly belonging to the old Cain. The first that the Templar picked up spoke of a land of hot sands and aggressive wildlife - Caldeum, he surmised. A quick lookover proved that most of them spoke of the same. What about the book that Maika buried himself in? What had Caldeum to do with their current plight?

“The old man was on the trail of something,” Maika voice unexpectedly filled the silence. “He gave his life to some great chase and gathering evidence of something that will come to pass.” He was calm on the surface, but Kormac detected an edge underneath it, in the way the melodic quality of his usual speaking pattern was absent now, in the way his fingers pressed into the yellowed pages. “And all the signs he'd seen point to it happening very soon.”

“Your coming to Tristan was no coincidence, then.”

Maika had told him that exact thing shortly after their first meeting, but Kormac was slow to trust his words back then.

He didn’t believe in fate as a matter of course – there was Light’s Will and there was human struggle to follow the Light, but the sole idea of predestination argued with the doctrine of the Covenant at the very base level. If fate could not be changed, one was damned to repeat their mistakes and never reach redemption. If fate was real, Kormac would be stuck in his old life and die a sinner. One could argue that his rehabilitation at the hands of the Order could also be considered a part of his destiny, but then one could argue that about every miniscule part of one’s life and that would quickly lead to either despair or apathy. Both being equally counterproductive, the man of action that Kormac was eschewed them entirely.  
  
That is, he used to – because meeting the force of nature that called itself a Wizard had a way of changing a man’s mind on some things. He didn’t believe in it, he was hardly that gullible, but watching the madman walk blindly through danger, acting as if he knew that the outcome of every fight was in his favour… watching him being right… it was raising some doubts in Kormac’s mind, alright.    
  
Except, that wasn’t all good, was it? Doubt was a luxury that he could ever hardly afford, and recently it was like an insect gnawing at him constantly, turning his mind away form the straight path of Light he walked for over a decade. First, Jondar’s betrayal, then this man and his grand Destiny, then the revelation of a Great Evil’s influence in the world  – all in such quick succession one could indeed find themselves not a bit winded.  
  
Maybe that was it, the reason for his tumultuous thoughts – fatigue could do that to the strongest of men.  
  
“Now, this could make sense,” Maika spoke belatedly, lost in the lecture. “What would saving the world mean if the threat to it was a paltry one?”  
  
“What, indeed.” The man had no shame, no matter that internally Kormac agreed with the opinion; what would redemption mean without struggle? True glory was hard to come by if one didn't intend to sacrifice anything for it.  
  
“Since you’re so agreeable all of a sudden, come, try something for me.”  
  
The sword was laid out on the table pushed against the wall that Maika led him to through the mess. Kormac didn’t have the time to have a proper look at the blade before, in the chaos following the old man’s death, and it was only now that it hit him how big it actually was.  Long, two hander at least – more akin to an executioner’s blade than something used in fight. It was also bare – no adornments, no etchings, the blade as utilitarian as it could be made. It appealed to the Templar’s straightforward sensibilities, even though the strange energy surrounding it made his skin crawl.

“Can you lift it?” The Wizard asked.

A request simple enough.

Except that the sword was damned heavy! Much heavier than its pieces made him believe. Kormac had some experience with twohanders, some of the really impressive ones, but this was straining his muscles to even keep in the air and he could not imagine trying to actually fight with it. It was also strangely balanced, the tip dragging down constantly, no matter how he tried to wield it. All in all it seemed more akin to these overly decorated replicas that the rich Lords of Westmarch hung on their walls, pretending to have used them in some glorious past battles, than a functional blade meant for combat.

“I see.” Maika didn't look surprised by his struggle. “You're the strongest swordsman I know and yet still…?”

“This blade is much heavier than it seems,” Kormac admitted begrudgingly, embarrassed even though there was no judgment in being passed.

“You don't even know the half of it,” dark eyes focused their look on the blade. “If you could only look at it with a mage’s eyes.”

“Even without them I feel power residing inside of it.”

Black eyes shone like polished lacquer when the young man finally raised his head to look at him, revealing something feverish in their depths. “Yes, there's power there, but of a sort to can't pinpoint.” Thin fingers of one hand clenched on the front of Templar’s shirt. “Then why does it feel like I do? Like I should!”

“I don’t…” Kormac started and stopped, because these words were spectacularly unhelpful. He racked his brain for an idea and blurted out the first one that came to him. “Maybe it’s also a part of your fate?”

“If it is, it’s one that hasn’t happened yet or happened before I can recall it.” Maika countered. But it seemed to give him a pause, push the consuming him frantic energy down and clear his eyes a bit.

Fingers unclenched form Kormac’s shirt and retreated slowly, absent-mindedly smoothing out the wrinkles left in the fabric. Black gaze retreated minutely into another space, inwards, as thoughts ran behind it, before returning to the present and taking it in.

“You’re tired,” was he first sober thing out of the Wizard’s lips ever since Kormac stepped into the room. “Have you slept? You better go and rest, we have to move out soon.”

Struck dumb, Kormac could only gape.

“Move out?”

“To get our fallen star back, of course! And to take revenge on the witch, that part should be familiar to a Templar, I think?”

As if it was the only logical course of action to take.  

“Come, or better yet, no, here, have this.” A bottle of red potion appeared out of nothing and was forced into his hands. “Get your armour and some proviant, we can’t afford to wait.”

“Wait for what?”

A voice from the doorstep made them all turn. “Well then, we better hurry, they’re not that far yet.”  

Maika was completely unsurprised at the intrusion. “Are you sure they didn't spot you?”

“Please, I'm a professional.”

“Splendid, I knew I can count on you.”

The expression on the thief's face after these words was a thing to behold. He shared a look with Kormac, both equally full of disbelief. Well, at least they were on the same page on the issue of the scoundrel - even Lyndon hardly trusted Lyndon, it seemed.

“How far are they?”

The thief shook off the stupor, a man of business once more. “The witch disappeared into thin air, but the cultists are flesh and bone, they used the roads. Took our star west and north, we can still chase them down if we're on horseback.”

“No, horses will spook in the presence of demons,” Kormac cut in. That’s how he’d lost his own mount, barely a day away from the town.

Maika nodded in agreement, “And I have something better than horses, anyway.”

Oh, gods, no.

Not the portals again!

 

* * *

 

Much to Kormac’s dismay it was a portal yet again.

The chase led them through some truly… curious… places...

_(Why did it have to be spiders?! A whole damned cavern of them! Saving the Vecin girl was all well and good, but the fight had cost them time they did not have.)_

…to finally end up in another underground memento of the fallen King Leoric; another proof of the depths of depravity one could allow themselves to fall.

The journal of brittle paper written by a dead man that Lyndon picked up from some dried husk on the way shed some light on the happenings in the Royal Family, but Kormac stood steady in his opinions. A man that was good and strived to stay that way wouldn't have fallen to the whispers of a mad mage who served the Darkness. There were no excuses that would justify the tyranny that almost suffocated Khanduras under the rule of Leoric, no excuse for any of his monstrous actions.

“You see world in such stark colours, friend.”

Kormac spared a glance at the thief, otherwise busy with cleaning the unholy blood from his spear and armour in a moment of peace they’ve earned before descending into the bowels of the manor. “Speak your mind, I have no energy for riddles.”

Lyndon’s eyes fell briefly on the body of the dead cultist sprawled on the ground by their feet, face-down in a puddle of blood, features almost unrecognizable after being nearly pulverised by a fist clad in iron. Kormac had to admit, Haedric knew how to make gauntlets..

Lyndon’s raised eyebrow made him duck his head a bit however. Alright, he might have gone a bit over the top in that one instance.

“Just seems that your life is quite simple, isn't it? Goal-wise, I mean.”

“I don't understand, isn't it clear that I've dedicated my life to the service of Light?”

He might have shouted something to that end at the enemy in the heart of battle. Trust Lyndon to hold it against him.

“No, no, it’s quite clear, alright. Was just wondering if there’s anything else you’d like to have.”

“I need nothing else than the knowledge that I’ve helped to drive the Darkness away.”

“Oh, of course. Well, I’d prefer money and women, but that’s also good and admirable stance, I can admit.”

Maika, who was investigating the door on the other side of the short hallway, turned to them with his brows ceased. The passage was protected by magic, if the purple glow surrounding it was any indication.

“Are you two done?” He said, coming up to them.

“Me and the punishing hand of justice here were just chatting,” Lyndon said with a disarming smile.  

“A hand of what… Oh.” The Wizard stopped at the body at Kormac’s feet and looked it over with mild interest. “Well, that’s certainly effective at keeping them down.”

Kormac hoisted his shield over the shoulder and nodded seriously. “I knew you’d approve.”

“Wholeheartedly, my friend.”

Lyndon eyed them both suspiciously, but after a while decided that a shrug was all that he could add to the conversation. They was little time to discuss philosophies, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Leoric’s dungeon was something Kormac had a feeling will stay with him for the rest of his life. He'd been to many a Demon’s lair in his service to the Order, but this wasn't just a tomb. This was a place of torture, built to imprison and murder innocents. The age-old remains of its grim purpose stared him in the face at every turn - half-rotten machines and miles of chains rusted with blood, rooms where the floors were hidden from sight under piles of bones.

The Cultists had added to the past crimes. Fresh blood stained the walls, monsters with altogether too many human features left clinging stubbornly to their bodies stalked the corridors. Stench of decay was prevalent, in some places strong enough to choke him.

He didn't even want to imagine how it was for the Wizard, whose eyes saw so much more than his own ever did. What cruel designs was he seeing in the gore-splattered chambers, what foul spells left by the cultists, what horrific magic? What was he seeing, when he stopped in the doorways of empty rooms, frozen in place, eyes moving side to side, as if witnessing some spectacle that left him pale and breathless? Was it visions of the past? Or the uncertain future? Kormac didn't dare ask, neither did Lyndon, if he’s even noticed. The most he could do was to be there, at Maika’s back, offering his wordless support when the Wizard needed it, a shoulder to lean on when his steps faltered between the skirmishes they've tried to avoid in their hurry to find the Stranger.

Undead swarming this place were of a different kind than the ones on the plains - these were people murdered, died in great pain, unfairly, judged guilty of imaginary crimes by a cruel madman. No wonder the one thing that was left of them in this world was their hate, their want of retribution. These weren't ghosts, but true, soulless wraiths.

But then, amongst them, there was also the Queen…

 

* * *

 

Dead Queen stared at them from the black holes where her eyes should be - placed in the head that she held in the crook of her arm - and Kormac felt two powerful urges colliding in his soul.

The first was pity, it wanted him to fall to his knees and weep for the kind, gentle woman in front of him. For the wife and mother betrayed and murdered by the monster she’d never stopped trying to save. In all the accounts of Leoric’s madness, the Queen had always been painted as nothing less, than a symbol of great courage and compassion.

The second emotion he felt was rage - hot like melted steel, hard like stone, an urge ordering him to pick his weapon up, find the bastard responsible for this tragedy and make him s _uffer again_.  

Pulled in two different directions at once, Kormac could only stand in place, speechless and despaired.

Maika’s robes whispered when he moved to stand next to him and briefly rested a hand on his shoulder - fingertips knocking on the pauldron. Short as the touch was, it grounded the Templar somewhat.

The Wizard turned to the Queen then, head held high. “My lady,” he said. “Such cruel  fate befell you… I hoped that at least in death you’d find some peace.”

“ _I can’t…_ ” Her voice was ethereal, soundless, and yet there. Like wind whispering in the grass or an owl’s flight. “ _No peace for me… not while souls of my faithful servants… are still trapped… in these halls…_ ”

“We will free them,” Kormac promised before he had a chance to think about it. At the moment he would swear fealty to her if she’d only asked. “I swear to you, my lady!”

“ _…sweet boy…_ ” Her bloodless lips smiled at him, even though pain still twisted her face. _“If you do me this… favour… you will have my… blessing… Ah, and you… chosen child..._ ” Her non-eyes turned to the Wizard, somewhat more sorrowful than they were a moment ago. “ _...stay safe… however cruel was my fate… yours… ah, yours…_ ”

She paled and her contours blurred in front of the men. Like a wisp of smoke she disappeared into the darkness, leaving them in stunned silence.

Maika was the first one to shake the feeling off. He twisted his fingers in the air and the light over their heads flashed brighter, changing colour from pale yellow to warm orange - as if he tried to add them all courage by making the dungeons seem less cold and desolate.

It wasn’t working, but Kormac wasn’t about to mention it. He was still reeling from what he saw and heard. And one thing in particular kept stabbing at his mind.

His eyes met Lyndon’s over the Wizard's head and they shared a look that spoke volumes.

How was that even possible? That the ancient Queen from the times gone by knew the Wizard, knew _about_ him, and mourned for him.

 

* * *

 

This filthy, cruel, bloody place was where they've met the necromancer.

Of course.

Nahir, as he introduced himself, once Kormac lowered his spear and Lyndon apologised for the arrow that pierced the man’s cloak. Maika didn't attack the stranger looming in the dark corridor before them only because the moment he raised his hand to cast, Kormac grabbed it and pulled the Wizard behind him like a disobedient child. (Gods, was it to be his fate now? Instead of charging into the battle unheeded, was he to play a minder for this unruly youth?)

There was no easy greeting, this time, unlike with the Demon Huntress. Nahir and Maika measured each other up from across the width of a corridor, gazes intent and hands arranged to be visible. Kormac left them to it and retreated to guard the back and share a look with Lyndon that conveyed his confusion.

“Magical folk,” the thief whispered to him with a smirk. “They always stare each other down like foxes, you know.”

No, Kormac didn't know that. He rarely came in contact with magic users, the mages that accompanied his Order were never common enough to observe their behaviour in numbers and rarely as wilful as Maika. As for the priests of Rathma…

Well, Templars usually tried to keep away from the priests of Rathma. And looking at Nahir, Kormac understood why. The man was striking in a way that a living person should not be. He could not be called thin, because Lyndon, in all his gangly glory, was thin. Still, compared to him, Nahir was downright skeletal.

And he wasn’t light or even pale, because Maika was that and the man looked like a dried-out parchment next to him. His skin had the look and the texture that reminded Kormac of a piece of driftwood washed out on the sand, left to the elements, bleached by the unforgiving sun. Repulsive in a way that a fresh corpse was, not gone long enough to offend the senses yet, but still enough to be disconcerting. Whenever he wasn’t speaking directly to one of the living, he was losing all pretence of animation, his gaze turning inwards.

And this bearing was even more of a deterrent for conversation, that very presence unsettled something deep down in Kormac’s soul, as if the Light in his heart was pushed out of balance by the darkness swirling around the Necromancer. Not to mention the… little nightmare that followed the man’s steps like a familiar. A shivering pile of meat, barely humanoid in shape, as if scrambled together in a rush by a morbidly disturbed child.

Kormac has never seen Maika uneasy, not really, until the moment his eyes fell on the creature - and he’s never seen a man move quicker than when Lyndon grabbed the Wizard by the shoulders, spun him around and bowed him at the waist, somehow still managing to wind Maika’s hair around a fist and out of the way when the young man retched. Under Kormac’s harsh glare, Nahir shrugged apologetically and dismissed the familiar, letting it fall apart into a pile of flesh and bones, unrecognizable and reeking of rot.

“Quick thinking,” Kormac acknowledged a bit later, gruff and unintentionally impressed.

Lyndon waved him away airily. “Lifetime in Kingsport,” he said. “You learn to see the signs.”

However amusing of a scene it was, Kormac had to admit that this was the first time he’s seen the Wizard react to something in such a starkly human way. It left him apprehensive. As if this hell they were traversing was slowly pulling them down, sucking the strength out of their souls as well as bodies.

It went undisputed that the flasks with red elixir exchanged hands often.

 

* * *

 

“The land had brought me here,” Nahir revealed. “The way energy flows through Khanduras has been disrupted, it can be felt all the way in Caldeum. And now I see why. The dead have no business walking amongst the living. I’m here to put them to rest and restore the balance between life and death.”

That was the most the man had said at once, the rest of the conversation - from the lack of a better word to name it - has been made up of stilted sentences and one-word answers. Maika stayed at least a few steps away form their new companion and Kormac resigned himself to being the wall that separated them when on the move. Which left Lyndon, who had no shame and apparently no fear, to bother the priest with incessant questions about his trade.  

 

* * *

 

The dungeon felt unending, depressingly so – was there enough people to populate it in the whole Khanduras? There had to be whole villages worth of bones in this dark pit, well-fulls of blood splashed on every surface. The deeper they went, the hotter it got – just like in that other dark hole, where they’ve met for the first time – and the darkness became more oppressive. Maika’s magical light fought to light their way when the fires left by the cultists ran out, and they had to move more and more by touch than sight. It was inconvenient. The stench of decay got more and more pronounced the closer they were to the target and with it an overlying odour of sweet perfume that Kormac was not quick to forget.  
  
“The witch is close,” Maika voiced their thoughts. “Stay sharp and keep your wits about you, we will meet her soon.”  
  
“Is she the one responsible for this mess?” The Necromancer inquired calmly. There was a piece of entrails suck to his belt ever since the last skirmish and Kormac still wasn’t sure if he should draw attention to it; the man seemed perfectly comfortable as he was. “If so, I might want to have a word with her. This cult has been spreading through Caldeum like a plague for years, high time to cut them off at the neck.”

“Well, stand in line, then,” Kormac muttered. “We’re all eager for a piece.”

Nothing more has been said.

 

* * *

  
  
They didn’t manage to get their piece of the witch, and truth to be told Kormac forgot about her entirely for a while when faced with a demonic monstrum that barred their way over a shaft of boiling rocks. Gods, have they entered the insides of the Earth? It sure felt like standing on the rafters overlooking Hell.  
  
The beast was unlike anything they’ve met so far – even King Leoric. The fallen monarch at least had a human lineage to follow, while this creature had nothing of the sort. It towered over them, as if glued together from mismatched parts of creatures better left unnamed, with a bile spitting maw, with chains and spikes spanning its flesh, it was hideous and horrific.  
  
Kormac’s blood boiled at the thought of facing off against it.  
  
The Wizard probably read his mind, because when Lyndon was taking slow steps back, looking for an escape route, Maika caught Kormac’s eyes and allowed his lips to bow in that thin, sardonic smile. Kormac swung his shield forward and tipped his head, inviting his comrade to begin. They’ve already fought one monster together, they knew the steps to this dance.  
  
And begin he did, by the Light he did. This time the start was quick and terrifying – a wave of cold air blew through the burning arena, winds whistling up against the ceiling, biting cold descending around them. Before the beast had a chance to catch up to them, the fires were already lowering, stifling heat retreating to let the companions breathe easier.  
  
”Not bad at all.” The praise form the Necromancer’s lips was a strange thing, but there was no time to mull over it, as the beast roared forward and Kormac moved to intercept it.  
  
The remaining fight has been bloody and gruelling, more of a test of endurance than anything else. Surprisingly, they made a good team – with Lyndon covering their backs with seemingly unending rain of bolts, and Kormac shielding the Wizard form the worst harm, Maika was free to let his magic fly unhindered. Ice seemed to be his choice weapon this time, thought gods knew where he took the moisture from to create it. Hair-thin blades and piercing arrows flew towards the beast, slicing flesh and freezing whatever they’ve touched, clouds of blindingly white snow blew into the monster's face, leaving it blind and frantic, throwing its mass around in blind attempts to reach its opponents. Kormac struck with his spear where he dared, careful to keep his shield steady, mindful of the people behind him, waiting for the command that was due to come soon – to cover his eyes and ears, to hide from the world going insane.

But it didn’t come this time – it was Nahir who struck the final blow.

Bloodied floor shook underneath their feet – a quick tremble, felt mostly in the knees, barely distinctive from the beast thrashing around. So unimpressive, compared to the great feats Maika performed when he’d decided to deal the final strike. No, the Necromancer was much less flashy, his final strike wasn’t accompanied by an apocalyptic boom or an explosion of air pressure strong enough to send men to their knees. But it wasn’t any less horrific because of that.

It made sense, in retrospect, that a man that dealt with the dead would use dead to his advantage – including the dead parts of their enemy that slowly accumulated throughout the battle. Loosely hanging pieces of skin, shattered bones, grisly adornments made out of human remains – all of it Nahir grasped with his power and pulled on… and the skin started to peel, the bones cut through flesh, rendering more of it dead in effect. The sound was wet and slick when the blades of ribs finally pulled free form the monster’s sides and turned, twisted on themselves, stabbing into the beast’s back like daggers, spilling entrails like gory garlands over the buckling knees of their enemy. Kormac watched, half fascinated, half aghast, when the monsters body opened like a ripe fruit and pulled itself inside out until all that was left on the floor was an unrecognizable heap of shivering viscera.

So used to their encounters ending in eerie silence, Kormac realised belatedly that his mind blocked out the sounds of the creature’s struggle, its final cries – and it was crying, wailing, roaring in pain, terror, anger, - but all he’d heard was only echoes. They’ve washed down his body, rubbing his skin raw, raising his hair, only to settle in his knees like a dead weight before other sounds came back to him.

Water, that was dripping somewhere down the walls. Nahir’s laboured breathing, as he searched through his numerous pouches for gods know what. Lyndon muttering calming nonsense behind his back.

Maika was retching again.

Kormac shook himself out of stupor and dropped his sword and shield, both to be cleaned once he’s got some air into his lungs. He reached to unbuckle his cloak, turning away from the horror of what the priests of Rathma were capable of. Before everything else, their Wizard needed tending to.

He shouldered Lyndon to the side none too gently and grasped Maika under one skinny arm, pulling him away from the mess he’s made. The cloak was, thankfully, still clean. The Wizard was shaking again, pale and gaunt-looking, with eyes closed tightly, as he gasped for air. He followed Kormac on shaky legs when he was led to the far wall and slid down it gratefully, pulling the cloak tightly around himself.

Kormac didn't rightly know what to do. He’d been a witness to many young Templars and soldiers experiencing battles for the first time, he’d been an unwitting witness to many of them reacting to the chaotic and violent nature of war in just such way. But he’s thought that Maika… this wasn’t the first enemy they’ve fought, surely the Wizard wasn’t surprised… nor was it the most hideous - the spider Queen was ten times more disgusting, in Kormac’s opinion. So why…? Why now? Why, when up until now the damn fool was running into battles with a smile on his face, short of a cry of joy! Why break down now, when Kormac was so dreadfully unprepared to offer any kind of support other than a manly grip on the trembling shoulder and a rough command to _stand up, stand tall, be proud of what you’ve accomplished!_

Thankfully, Lyndon crowded back in, pushing Kormac to the side, their last remaining waterskin in his hands. He lifted it to Maika’s lips and allowed him to take a couple of shallow sips.

“Flush your mouth,” he ordered, voice surprisingly steady, given the situation. He gripped their Wizard by the back of his neck and bent his head low. “Spit.“

Maika listened, spat the water out, then took another couple sips. His shaking didn't cease, but he looked more lucid. Then his eyes widened when Nahir pushed his way to his side with hands full of dried herbs and, alright, Kormac could take the hint, he was useless in this situation, so he stepped back and out of the way, returning to his weapons. Gods knew what awaited them outside of this room, someone had to be prepared.

It didn’t mean, though, that he was willing to ignore the situation or any possible danger that the Necromancer could still pose to them. His ears were sharp as they tried to listen in on the muttered conversation behind his back.

“...not the gore,” Maika wheezed at some point. “It’s not that, Lyndon… I’m fine…”

“You’re too deep underground…” Nahir interrupted in his dry, uncaring way.

“...exactly as much as I had to…!”

“Be as you wish… should get on…”

They got on.

 

* * *

 

Kormac wondered when will his life go back to the days before every waking hour brought with itself another life-changing revelation. He’d like to return to that - to not having the ground pulled from under his feet in such consistent manner, to being sure of where he stands and what he’s supposed to be doing on a daily basis.

He’d almost thought he’s there… and of course that was the moment when Maika had to get in the way and send his head spinning once more with a handful of simple words.

“Take up your sword, Angel.”

Kormac ignored the fact that it took one gesture for the Wizard to split reality and reach inside of it to pull out a blade he was pretty damn sure they’ve left back in Tristram. That was inconsequential. He’d ignored the way their fallen star, battered and bruised, and worn to the bone by his captivity, moved towards the sword like hypnotised.

He covered his eyes like an obedient child, because that was always the safe thing to fall back on with Maika around, and thus avoided being blinded by the Light exploding around them in a nova of Holy power. He’s heard Lyndon swear briefly (the scoundred was yet to gain experience in travelling with this particular mage) and fell to his knees when the pressure of the power around him became too much. His Order followed its own creed and didn't particularly worship the Archangels, but the respect towards the High Heavens and their inhabitants was something ingrained into every Templar. In case of any further doubts, the Holy medium bidden under Kormac’s chestplate flared with heath, signaling the presence of a higher power nearby.  

Then he opened his eyes and that was probably the moment when he decided to actively stop being surprised by anything that came to him under Maika’s leadership. Because, of course the damn Wizard knew it was an Archangel they’ve fished out of the Old Cathedral - _of-damned-course_ he did. Just as he knew everything else that he’d decided _not_ to share with his companions until the last moment. What was even the point of trusting the usual order of the world in the presence of that madman?

Lyndon was still a liar and a thief in Kormac’s eyes, but the number of times they’ve recently exchanged a look of solidarity was becoming concerning. That now the Necromancer joined their shared incredulity it was downright embarrassing.

“I am Tyrael. I have much to tell you,” the Archangel said to them, serious and commanding, and nothing like the quiet, subdued man they’ve saved from the cultists a few moments ago. “And we don't have much time. We have to get back on the surface.”   

And then the Commander of High Heavens, one of the Archangels and Virtues, looked around, kind of helplessly, as if confused by his surroundings, until his golden eyes fell on the Wizard who, until now, was not at all subtly leaning half of his weight against Kormac’s side, holding on to his shield arm to stay upright. That look seemed to be enough to push Maika to action. He detached himself from the Templar and, with his usual smirk, opened up a portal to, hopefully, Tristram.  

It took a bit out of the mystique, however, to see a Holy Warrior outright panicking over a small human fainting straight into his arms.

 

* * *

 

The news were grave.

That is, more grave than they’ve suspected.

After the chaos brought on by the appearance of a honest-to-gods Archangel in their midst has settled, the small gathering in the back of the tavern was left speechless and subdued. Some of them, like Haedrig, didn't seem as much surprised by the bad turn of their luck as they’ve been resigned to it. Some, like Leah, sat down in shock, trying to chew through the information provided by Tyrael.

The Great Evils. It was not a suspicion anymore, now it was the truth they were facing.

It was Rumford who expressed the shared emotion hanging in the air.

“Fuck,” he muttered, rubbing his tired eyes with harsh fingers. “ _Fuck!_ ”

Kormac could not have worded it better than a farmer’s son.  

He spared a small moment of surprise over the new presence by the Captain’s side - Karyna, the Vecin girl they’ve saved from the spider queen’s lair, was a new addition to their small council. The shine she took to the handsome lad was obvious, and he seemed to finds some strength in her presence, which made Kormac’s heart a bit lighter… and made him feel distantly ashamed of his previous ill-conceived assumptions about the boy’s, eh, preferences. Not that it was any of his business, of course, but if Maika was involved… with the chaos that followed him every step of the way… no, no, it wasn’t really any of his business.

And, speaking of the devil…

The devil was the only person in the room that dared to look only vaguely concerned with their plight.

“Well, then, we will get to it when we get to it,” Maika’s voice cut through the silence like a very bright knife cutting through stale butter. “Maghda is still breathing and I’d like to put a stop to that first and foremost.”    

Tyrael’s face tried to convey three emotions at the same time - surprise, disbelief and apprehension - and it was somehow amusing enough to break the darkness over their heads. Haedrig Eamon snorted, rolling his eyes to the ceiling, and Kormac felt the tension in his shoulders release, letting him take in a deeper breath.

Their Wizard looked terrible, true, pale and weak, but the dark bruises under his eyes served to make them even bigger, even more expressive. To the point that the resolve shining in their depths was strong enough to infect others.

“He’s right,” Leah rose from her place by Myriam’s side. “We have a trail to follow. Maghda serves Belial.”

“And with her recent failure, she will most likely run to her master’s heels,” Lyndon surmised. “Anyone wants to bet that her plans for our fallen star weren’t all that random?”

“No bets,” Kormac cut in. “But we need a way to track her reliably.” If only they’ve kept one or two of the cultists alive for questioning! Such a foolish oversight. “Do you have any idea how to do it?”

All eyes turned to Maika, but it was Nahir that stepped in, startling everyone, because it was so easy to forget about his presence. Such an unsettling man.

“I can help you with that,” he said. “Look to the desert, that’s where her cult seems to be the strongest.”

“Caldeum?” Rumford perked up, doubtful. “That’s… a long way from here.”

Karyna, however, didn’t seems surprised. “It’s possible,” she said quietly. “I’ve travelled with my family through the desert not long ago and there’s something stirring under the sands there. I’m not gifted, not any more than any of the Vecin is, but the feeling of wrongness was so strong… we didn't stop in Alcarnus, nor any of the major cities, out of fear.”

“I think we need to go through Uncle Decard’s diaries, before we decide anything,” Leah decided in the end, heading to the doors. “They may point us in the right direction.”

It was good to see her regaining some of her usual energy, eschewing the darkest despair in the face of a new purpose. Her determination to keep herself useful kept impressing Kormac time and time again.

“On that note, we should all get some well deserved rest.” Lyndon stood up and stretched, his gangly frame contorting strangely until his spine cracked. “If Caldeum is our next target, we’ll need all the rest we can get.”

“Aye,” Headrig agreed with a sage nod. “I get a feelin’ it will all get worse ‘efore it gets better.”

“Ah, my good man, why so negative? Let's look at the bright side of things.”

“Aye, we may even die quick, who knows?”

“Not what I had in mind.”

As the people slowly vacated the room, Kormac felt the tiredness return, weighing down his limbs. Lyndon was right, as loathe as he was to admit it, they needed to rest and start planning when their heads were clear.

“I have one more patrol to run,” Rumford said. He clasped Kormac’s shoulder in passing and smiled wanly at Karyna. “Can I walk you to your cart?”

Myriam looked decidedly all too smug as she followed them out of the inn.

That left Kormac, Tyrael and Maika.

The Archangel looked around him, the lost look returning to his face, and Kormac had the strangest suspicion that the warrior had no idea what to do with himself - or expect from his new human companions. Did anyone think to offer him a bed? Come to think of it, did he join them for a meal, before the meeting commenced?

Gods, he was exhausted enough to barely care.

There were things, however, that had to be sorted out before he fell into bed.

“You can’t stand, can you?”

Maika, spread rather obscenely on the windowsill, smiled at him with that damn iron-clad smile that meant he will dislike the answer so may as well not say anything at all. The exact same smile the Wizard gave him right before they’ve entered the caves housing the spider queen and her brood.   

“Come on then,” Kormac said, sighing deeply. His own flesh was numb and stiff, because he rushed his healing this time, eager to join the others in the tavern, and his back protested a bit at bending to help the annoying man up. “Let me help you to bed.”

“Oh my, Templar, what about your wows?”

Well, he wasn’t so tired to avoid choking on his own spit, rearing back like a startled colt, blushing like a maiden when he stumbled right into Tyrael, who took to hovering overshoulder.

“What wows?” The angel asked.

“Nothing,” Kormac muttered, casting a dark look towards his exasperating companion.

For that he was poked in the chest - surprisingly, it actually hurt a bit when his pectoral wasn’t protected by the armour. He grasped the offending fingers and squeezed them in silent warning.

Maika just laughed.

“Go to sleep, Kormac, we will need you at full strength tomorrow. I still have some words to exchange with our fallen star.”  

So Kormac left, as the angel muttered that his name was Tyrael, uneasy feeling clawing at his ribs. It might have been caused by the overwhelming tiredness - or might might have been the Necromancer standing across the street, and his pale eyes following the Templar across the square.    

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 


End file.
